


awareness

by limeta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Blood Prejudice, Childhood Trauma, Class Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Gay, Gen, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Horcruxes, Lord Voldemort is ill, Lord Voldemort-centric, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, Politics, Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Tom Riddle, Sane Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sentient Hogwarts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Young Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-12-28 08:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 80,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21133559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta
Summary: Lord Voldemort wins in 1981.He gives politics a chance, until he can't stand it anymore.Then he goes back to Hogwarts to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a professor.





	1. Chapter 1

Lord Voldemort wins. He doesn't expect it, really, and doesn't believe it until a while later. Until the onset of war settles like powdered poison in a glass of water. If the prophecy is to be believed and Bellatrix Black's report is, too - then both of his supposed equals are dead.

Few know of the prophecy and those that do are swiftly killed. Lord Voldemort does not want this propagated. The very last thing he wants is for dead children being martyred against him. They are just another pair of deaths caused because of their parents' animosity for the Cause.

Abraxas Malfoy, his confidant, brings out the best port and clinks their glasses. Bellatrix glows and don't all witches glow when they've killed and smeared themselves in blood that feeds their magic like blood magic once fed crops? He drinks and the drink doesn't sit well with him. It disbalances his mind. When offered another glass he doesn't refuse.

The Ministry doesn't fall because the Ministry has always been full of supporters and sympathisers. The more correct phrase here would be:

Dumbledore falls.

It isn't Lord Voldemort that kills him. Some call it The Last Battle or the Battle of the Ministry for it is in those grand halls of centuries of bribery and corruption that the new world order will come to surface.

He grips the yew wand and searches the older wizard with his crimson, mad eyes. There is no anger on his face, no gritted teeth - it is fire that freezes that hurts him, hurts himself.

Dumbledore looks at him and can't take a hint, can't understand that pride and an unwillingness to back down shall kill him. There is so few of his people left that martyring himself is useless. It is the elder wand that he holds and prepares to use, prepares to finally destroy that which his fear and ignorance has bred into hatred.

Lord Voldemort does not know that Dumbledore has the elder wand, otherwise his self-preservation would never have allowed him to come here. His mind is a puzzle which branches off into a series of mazes, disconnected. The fire inside him hurts, burns like ice.

The passion that has pushed him since childhood spent in that orphanage; the passion that has hurried him all through school while being sneered at by his housemates and lauded by professors; the passion that has helped him distance himself from that cruel name his mother has given him ebbs away once he's face to face with his only obstacle left. Victory is at his fingertips now that the prophecy is fulfilled.

Minerva McGonagall is there, standing tall and proud like a lioness. Alastor Moody stands on the other side of Dumbledore. Everyone else is dead. It is just this holy trinity left to die.

''Tom,'' Dumbledore begins and it's his last word. He moves to take a duelling stance and Voldemort mirrors him.

There are so many of them, thinks Voldemort and doesn't look back to the Death Eaters who stare at Voldemort in reverence and awe. Bellatrix Black is by his side and nobody else. This is the Last Battle, all of them think and Voldemort has to mentally force himself to do something. Bile and vomit from the breakfast of his morning come to haunt him. Abraxas Malfoy's ardent congratulations ring in his ears. His laughter just before kissing him rings in his ears. How pleased the pureblood is to have bet correctly on the halfblood.

His crimson eyes stare hazily, lacking that potent clarity that comes with his predatory gaze of a basilisk in waiting, of a proper Slytherin come to fight - it numbs him, this waiting. He's so close. He's so close. He just has to kill this man that has caused him nothing but pain and anger. It should be a pleasure.

But fear strangles him. Moody, ever vigilant, notices and casts the killing curse his way. Watching that jet of green light surge towards him causes enough clarity to spark into those eyes that Voldemort jumps out of its way. A ministry official dressed all in pink falls dead instead.

The Ministry forms a pantheon of pandemonium. It is not a battle, thinks Voldemort as he surges wholeheartedly into a duel with Moody, if it is twenty versus three.

His Death Eaters corner Minerva McGonagall. Dumbledore helps her, shielding her and sending pacifist spells their way.

He drags out the duel with Alastor Moody who does not know him enough to pity him like Dumbledore. It is reprieve. Moody's paranoia and madness to rival only Voldemort's come as salvation. They send curses at one another, all illegal for they know the other will not be lenient. This is not a student come to best a teacher - this is a rabid attack hound pinned against a cunning snake with venom and a jaw strong enough to break bone.

Minerva McGonagall is hit with a cruciatus. She doesn't scream, doesn't fall, doesn't bow down - instead she flings a severing charm straight at the caster's wand hand and chops it off. The spell sizzles off. Her breath is haggard, her exemplary bun messes, but she stands and fights. ''Kill him,'' McGonagall tells Dumbledore in a hoarse voice (as if the screams have been contained within her body, as if her vocal cords have been electrified)

Moody casts and Voldemort takes a nasty hex to his right shoulder. It doesn't bleed, but it feels like blood from that part of him has simply vanished. His pallor is appalling, Voldemort knows and takes a heavy step towards the man, side-stepping his jet green killing curse again. Death, he is afraid of. Pain, he will never be.

Like a lovely send-off to a man that comes close to killing him on the battlefield, Lord Voldemort whispers the killing curse in respect. It grazes Moody while he's trying to tumble out of the way on his peg leg - but that's all that it takes.

''Alastor!'' Minerva shouts. Dumbledore looks at the body - and in that second - that split bloody second -

Bellatrix Black is unafraid. She slams her boots down on the marble Michelangelo would envy. Her black hair whips and bobs in the flight of pursuit. Everyone that isn't in shock steps back, allows this whip of a woman - this harbinger of destruction to go on her way undisturbed. This is his general, Voldemort stands, frozen finally by the ice inside him.

The General primes her wand, prepares her tongue to enunciate the two most powerful words in a wizard's vernacular, and when she is ready - she shoots.

That's all it takes. One moment of distraction. One moment of boldness only known to entitled Blacks.

Minerva McGonagall  **screams** .

Lord Voldemort hears it reverberating throughout his form, piercing his organs, and scratching at his mind like a siren's song of death. Death, he has brought to many so many times - yet this one is not his and he feels it harder than any before.

Bellatrix Black laughs, merry, joyful - so full of the same bon vivre he so wishes to have - to show. But he doesn't know if he ever can.

In languid steps he approaches the body of Albus Dumbledore and takes the elder wand from him unknowingly. ''Bella,'' he says, ''I think this belongs to you. Keep it as a souvenir.''

Bella smiles and lunges for him. They've bound Minerva with magic, he doesn't notice. They won't kill her because it is crueler to let an example live while all of her Order is dead. To further humiliate her, the new world order appoints her Headmistress in a Hogwarts governed by Death Eaters.

His General wraps her arms around his neck and she's kissing him and she's crying from exhaustion this war has wrought through all of them.

For the sake of Bellatrix's loyalty Lord Voldemort doesn't push her away in front of so many people. He kisses her back in the fanfare of his Death Eaters, the trepidation and elation of the Ministry, and the mourning Minerva McGonagall.

The next few days Voldemort spends wine and dining everyone that before has been too afraid of aligning with him. It makes him tired, to see and hear these turncloaks and sycophants. Once when the ever Dumbledore supporting Bones snarls at him like vapid fire that burns his ice away a little bit and wakes him up from the delirium and unknown and dissatisfaction - Voldemort kills her in a rage. Everyone, afterwards, never thinks to make him angry - they all agree and they all bore him.

Once, twice, and thrice Voldemort leaves a meeting halfway in and lies that he has better things to do. They all nod and scurry off and say that they can reconvene whenever suits him. It suits him never.

Abraxas Malfoy becomes the politician. Lucius is there to help him pave the new path towards pureblood supremacy. It's how it's supposed to be. It's why they've been fighting those eleven long, arduous years.

Bellatrix, he deals with in private. He holds her tightly and she doesn't know what to expect next. He wishes to wrap his arms around her neck and like a constrictor snake squeeze. To her relief or perhaps dismay - Voldemort doesn't go along with that plan. A heavy hand of his falls on her shoulder once they've broken from their embrace. She knows, by the way her eyes scream at him to not speak.

''Bella, you are my best.''

''I know my Lord.''

He cracks a smile at her forwardness and her unapologetic feeling of superiority to all of the men in his army. The women, she has taken in hand out of some suffrage solidarity, he supposes when he remembers her odd friendship with Alecto Carrow. Yet she is the best. None except her charged to fight Dumbledore, not even him.

''Please, find someone else.'' he tells her.

She nods and they part ways like two friends come from warren land together only can.

The rest of his days Voldemort spends eating alone in his room. He fine-tunes the lock spell so that only one elf can come and go with his meals. Eating is always something that he's associated with Hogwarts. Any sort of food, any meal that he eats until he's filled. That's only a sensation that he's ever known at Hogwarts in his youth. The war makes for unfair rationing.

The elf - Dobby he learns - comes and goes with food. He casts worried glances his way. Lord Voldemort gets sick of food around day four and begins to throw it all up until he's shaking above the pristine toilet attached to his room. Spittle dangles from his mouth and he's too numb to know what to do with that.

The ice moves from his organs to his mind.

The ice moves from his mind to his fractured soul.

He doesn't know how long he remains in such an uncouth position, but it seems that when Dobby appears uninvited he startles and brings Abraxas with him. Elf magic is powerful, much more than any wizard's.

''My Lord!'' there is fear when interacting with the mad. ''What's happened? Please, answer.''

Carefully Voldemort lifts his head and looks blearily at Abraxas Malfoy. He opens his occlumency channels to him and urges the blond to take a dip inside his mind and tell him what's wrong with him. Abraxas obliges, more terrified than ever. Looking into those silver eyes reminds him of a better time when he was in Hogwarts enjoying magic, enjoying life - enjoying himself.

He's won. Those children that should have become his equals will not. That man that has always been his magical equal will not continue to be. He's won and he's strangely alone in an uncomfortable sense.

A shudder courses through him when Abraxas' legilimency turns ungraceful when nothing wrong is to be seen. No one has implanted any memories, Abraxas says, no one has taken any memories, he adds, no one has done anything.

He's won and it feels much worse than if he's lost. A crack on his soul screeches and Voldemort doubles back over to the toilet to throw his lungs up. Abraxas kneels next to him and rubs his back. ''We'll get to the bottom of this, my Lord, because I'll summon you healers and they'll check how your magic is and you'll be fine you will you have to be!'' It's jumbled, that sentence full of many little ones.

He looks at this boy turned man turned confidant that's been the first pureblood to tell him he was worth something. Now when all the purebloods eat out of the palm of his hand, he doesn't care what they think. 

''Abraxas,'' Voldemort softly whispers and the pureblood turns to him and listens and frets like a lover ought to, ''please take over. I am in no condition to lead anything anymore.''

There is no rebuke, there is no 'you are, you are!' Abraxas Malfoy looks at his lord, takes out his wand, and scourgifies his face only to kiss him on the lips firmly, comfortingly. ''Please, get better. I shall mind our new world in your stead.''

''Unless I come to you with a suggestion,'' Voldemort says and forces himself to his feet, feeling better just by the weight of the world taken off of his shoulders, ''I do not want to be disturbed with anything. You know my manifesto, go by it.''

''Where is your manifesto again? I hope I haven't thrown it out when the Aurors were rummaging through my home one time or the other.'' Abraxas bites his lip and Voldemort breathes very hard.

''It's in my journal, Abraxas.''

''Your Hogwarts diary.'' Abraxas specifies because he needs to make sure he doesn't botch what they've all been working for.

''Yes.'' Lord Voldemort confirms. Abraxas helps him to his bed and out of worry decides to spend the entire night awake with him. They don't talk, but Abraxas’ magic gives him enough presence of mind to wonder why he's feeling like this.

It has to be the many horcruxes. Only those drenched in fear make more than one, Voldemort thinks. A glacial wave, he drowns in. ''I am dying.''

''You aren't.''Abraxas Malfoy immediately tells him, orders him to believe. His assurance is a comfort ''You've won.''

''What have I won,  _ really _ ?''

Lord Voldemort has never cared for politics. Power, in the raw sense of the word, yes - in the modern sense where the Ministry has it, where wealth has it, that he shall never care for.

Staring into calm silver helps him realise.

The words from his confidant help him even more.

''You've won Hogwarts, my Lord.''


	2. Chapter 2

Hogwarts.

Lord Voldemort looks at its exquisite structure from Hogsmeade and likes the way that it disallows all from apparating to its grounds. It humbles any wizard or witch this way. Not even its Headmistress may use such channels of transport, but instead must go to it like the students. Not even its Founder's child may be treated differently. He thinks that this is a rule instituted by Hufflepuff, but he does not remember.

He takes a step, leaves Hogsmeade borders, and slips into his ancestral land. It exudes power and it's familiar in a way he can't remember. A lot has changed, he notes. It isn't Dippet's calm that mixes with the wards and the castle's ever shifting structure; it isn't Dumbledore's guilt that forces him out and makes him hate (the abuse of a professor, he will always be able to forgive and forget, but the exile from his own ancestor's castle, from his home and the inability to ever return as an alumni, this he will forever carry as a vengeful torch); it is, instead, McGonagall's efficiency and sadness that intertwines with the corridors and the paintings and even the soil he walks on.

Hogwarts beckons him closer, lulling him now that the wards have shifted to accommodate a new power. His face is unmarred by experiments and curses, but it is pale and sickly from the potions he's been taking in the hopes of surviving. His soul aches. It squeals like a pig being slaughtered. Nobody knows, truly, what is wrong with him - but Abraxas guesses exactly what Voldemort thinks.

''It's the horcruxes, isn't it? Now that you don't have anything holding you together you're falling apart. Five was too many, you foolish man.'' Abraxas rues the way he's been enabling, calling them both idiots and fools and why now that they've won do they have to face the consequences. ''No matter how much you wanted war to end, it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing in on yourself. Can't you absorb one? It'll help you, I'm sure. It will. Of course it will. Are you listening?''

Voldemort remembers having let out a startled little laugh at his words. The implications of his own immortality killing him is too ironic and terrifying to venture into. His mind has been slipping sliver by sliver over the decades, but it is only now that anything physically damaging arises.

Some students recognize him, recognize the handsome man that's their hidden leader who seldom appears in Newspapers. There's a decline in his health, his enemies notice - his followers pretend not to out of a semblance of fearful loyalty. Bella comes often to visit him at Malfoy Manor. He sees an engagement ring on her finger one time and congratulates her. She fans it away and says that it's nothing more than a marriage of convenience.

''Society weddings are a bore. Mother will force me into a gaudy dress like some pompous airhead. I'll marry a man I don't particularly like, but we're purebloods and around the same age so it's acceptable. I'll bear his child and possibly another.'' Bellatrix tries to mask the bitterness, but she's always been open around him and this time is no different. He notices.

''If you don't like it,'' Lord Voldemort tells her and he means every word, which surprises her, ''don't go along with it. You killed Dumbledore.  _ You _ , Bella, ended this war. Don't let something as inconsiderate as family bully you into anything.''

Her black eyes spark. It's realisation that she, finally, finally doesn't have to listen to people who have raised her to be obedient and biddable. She is his  _ General _ . For a pureblood lady Bellatrix has always been more touchy than all of the cold, freezing society wives - her hands take his and she squeezes them. It's a bright smile that lights her all up. It doesn't at all help that comparisons to christmas trees keep coming to him while Yule is celebrated. ''Thank you!''

Those students that recognize him and know that he would not hesitate in killing them, don't raise their wands, don't even raise their gaze. He looks all of the children there and finds that he has absolutely no idea whose families they belong to. The only generation of children he's ever followed is Bellatrix and Lucius' because he knows their parents.

These children are all unknown to him.

Good, he thinks.

The magnificent doors of the castle open to him. Hogwarts recognizes him and this time, because McGonagall is less experienced in the art of control than Dumbledore, the castle is more powerful than its governess. It whispers to him a welcome.

He whispers it back in parseltongue and doesn't waddle around, merely goes for the Headmistress' office. He knows Hogwarts by heart if not his mangled soul. A shout comes for him.

It is Filius Flitwick's voice that demands: ''What are you doing here?''

''I am paying my school a visit.'' comes the soft answer. Lord Voldemort has never needed to raise his voice in order to be heard. It is the power of persuasion and charm, something that the dueler does not know.

His crimson, unnatural gaze peruses the Hogwarts staff table and he sees fairly recent changes. Slughorn is first of the old guard to quit. In his place Severus Snape is erected.

Iris Selwyn teaches Magic Customs; it is a new, mandatory class. It's a way to indoctorate the muggleborns into pureblood, magical culture. Muggleborn ignorance is the greatest reason for pureblood supremacists' hatred. New regime new laws.

They won't be crass and make the muggleborns wear yellow M's on their clothes. They won't hurry those of less fortunate blood to execution. They won't line them up and usher them to pogrom. They won't do that because he  _ remembers _ .

However, it remains that these witches and wizards must learn and must accept the new regime if they want to live in it. Their blood, even if seen as inferior, is necessary for the survival of them all. The next generation must be formed and all magical blood is sacred, he'll make the purebloods understand that pragmatism and necessity triumph over want and preference.

Rowle shivers when he meets eye to eye with him. Muggle Studies, Lord Voldemort vows to find someone  _ competent  _ who's going to teach  **properly- ** not how the post office works or how pencils are cat sized swords that are meant to be used for defence. He'll push to make it mandatory and because he is Lord Voldemort it will be as he says. Purebloods are just as guilty of ignorance and he will rectify that.

Most of the Hogwarts staff scrutinize him. Severus Snape has an impassive shield across his features that keeps his breakdown from view. Filius Flitwick for all of his knowledge and wit of Ravenclaw looks about ready to duel him to death, whose is not important.

Pomona Sprout, well, he actually remembers her as a student. His fifth to her first year. A marvel in her eyes that doesn't die. Her eyes are terrified, no marvel in sight. Well. It's just how things are. He's never cared for her opinion on anything.

Limply he crosses through the Great Hall without a word, without a greeting because he knows it would not be reciprocated. He finds the children in a hallway that don't know him and look at him with fascination. That don't - at the very least - recognize him in person. His newest entries in the Daily Prophet have photographs that Abraxas approves of instead of him, they're all touched up to hide the manic deterioration of his body.

Food tastes disgusting. Food has never tasted disgusting, not even when overcooked - it's food, it's sustenance - it's  **necessity** . Abraxas forces him to eat. It's good natured, but they're orders and he hates feeling so dull and unnecessarily unhappy. He's won!

Ice turns sharply and doesn't melt, not even with the added ingestion of any steaming hot tea he can get his hands around. It's better than not eating anything, at the very least Abraxas lets him be. Scowls at him, but he's too busy leading them now - too busy being Lord Malfoy, the right hand man. Lord Voldemort doesn't want to say anything, doesn't want to open that can of worms after decades of integration into pureblood society - but he notices that they follow Abraxas without a single glance of buried doubt. It takes a halfblood intimidation and persuasion and charm and knowledge and power to command, it takes a pureblood his blood to do the same.

The gargoyle statue outside the Headmistress' office snarls at him, batting at him. He steps away and regards it keenly. His lips are pressed into a thin line. ''Tell her I'm here.''

''She knows you're here.'' it spits back venom and venom cannot harm a Slytherin.

Lord Voldemort takes out his wand and flicks it. The statue freezes and swings to reveal an entrance. He slips inside and tucks his wand away else McGonagall thinks he's come to kill her. Which is something he doesn't need. At all.

''Good morning.'' Lord Voldemort greets her neither amiably nor like an enemy.

To give credit where credit is overdue Minerva McGonagall does not stiffen or flinch or do any of these terrible things to insult him. Fear is better than love, echoes his childhood mantra. Power is better than family.

Fear is annoying. Especially from those he respects.

Minerva McGonagall doesn't rise from her seat at the ancient desk. It's an original. Slytherin and Gryffindor and Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw sat around it and cycled through so everyone had a fair share. For two days, if the Basilisk is any good at remembering, they would put the Sorting Hat at the desk and let it run administration. On one day, they'd all sit together somehow, cramped. Those days were the most chaotic.

The Slytherin observes the Gryffindor watching him.

He appreciates her defiance in not rising to greet him. Towering over her suits him fine.

Months have passed since the last time they have last seen each other. November is a long way from May.

''I know why you're here.'' Minerva McGonagall remembers  _ him  _ from his school days. She knows his love for this school and education that's saved him from death. He knows he would have died in that orphanage. He knows some of the muggles would have gotten too tired of him and would have bashed his skull in. He knows he isn't the kindest person around and he knows what people do to unkind people when left to their own devices.

''Then you know I won't take no for an answer this time.''

This time when there is no Dumbledore, is left unsaid. When Dumbledore is not there to interfere where he should not.

Minerva McGonagall stares down her Boggart and he's oddly flattered that this is what her surface thoughts are. She doesn't feel him in her mind, but to find out that this woman is as afraid of him as he is of Death delights him. Fear is annoying. Fear is preferable. Fear induces compliance.

''I am Headmistress of Hogwarts,'' she doesn't know how to address him, not after he's placed that curse upon his name, so he allows her to use it, ''Voldemort, you must remember that while this castle may be yours by birthright it is  _ mine  _ by all other.''

Fear, he muses as he looks at this hellion of a witch, is the only thing that separates bravery from suicidal idiocy.

''I would never dare take your administrative duties from you, Headmistress.'' Lord Voldemort whispers and doesn't like how his body sears with non-maskable pain. He doesn't need to look at the time to know he should be taking a pain relieving potion right about now. ''I wish to offer my services to the school. Specifically a chance to give these children an education in Defence they have been deprived of.''

She gives him a stern, stony look as if reading him via legilimency. He feels no push or gentle prod so this is just Gryffindor dramatics.

Minerva McGonagall rises from her seat, strolls to him in decisive steps, and takes his hand in hers: ''I will swear you in as Professor once you get rid of your jinx.''

Without a word he nods.

''Now.'' she orders.

Inclines his head in a nod. ''Of course. Come along, Headmistress.''

They make an odd pair as they walk through these halls. She is the symbol, a reminder of a world that is passed. That will never come back. In a way this thrills him, to be working with someone so entangled in the old ways, but not enough so as not to see reason. These children need Minerva McGonagall. Hogwarts has accepted her so eagerly that Voldemort knows this is what must be. No one else can be Headmaster. Good thing he has never had aspirations for the position.

Whilst he is the tyrant prodigal son returning to his one, true home. Soul malformed by the dark magic, but superficially there is only his pallor to show for. He is the new leader of the new world and he hides from it.

They go towards the Ravenclaw tower. Then skid in an alcove that takes them near the kitchens. Whether she knows these shortcuts or not is unimportant. Both are dutiful and mindful of their powers and their untame magic. His flares and hers is jagged.

Silence is preferable to talking, but they know that one way or the other they'll have to hold conversation. If they're to work together, that is. And they are. Lord Voldemort won't allow anyone to exile him from Hogwarts,  _ ever  _ again.

They stand in front of a wall. It's a very ordinary wall, too. It's got no paintings on it. A small light hangs above it. Right next to it is the secret entrance into the kitchens that the elves often use.

''Well?'' Minerva McGonagall prompts and pushes him especially because she sees the stark contradiction in health and sickness colouring him.

Yew wood taps a stone and an incantation is hissed and the stone lights up in green runes. Minerva inches closer to inspect it. Voldemort lets her. He's fascinated by her opinion, by what she thinks of his work.

However, as if sensing his need to hear another speak in this onslaught of sluggishness - McGonagall keeps her thoughts to herself spitefully.

Once the runic inscription is fully erased and the magic is absorbed back into its caster - Minerva McGonagall asks him if it's done.

''It is.'' He answers truthfully. Then when she makes a noise in the back of her throat he adds. ''You won't be rid of me.''

The animagus peers at him hard. If she were in her cat form her tail would be swishing. Lord Voldemort doesn't allow this mental image to break his indifferent facade.

''I suppose I won't.''

Then, later after she's sworn him in: ''I hope I'm wrong. How I hope I'm wrong.''

Sitting now because of exhaustion and her towering over him with her stunning fir wand gripped hard and two words at the tip of her tongue - their joint respect for Hogwarts the only reason why they won't blemish it with battle.

''Hope is all you've got, Headmistress. I don't fault you for clinging to it.''


	3. Chapter 3

Only staff are allowed to spend the summer holiday at Hogwarts.

Lord Voldemort reclines on a bench on the grassy mound outside and blinks away the bemusement that comes with finally, finally being able to do that. It's strange to be almost the sole occupant of the castle, yet the quiet does not discontent him. In fact, it promotes a semblance of peace within him.

Everyone has opinions regarding his new position. Death Eaters think it's strange. Abraxas Malfoy thinks he's gone insane finally. Bellatrix Black doesn't say anything, she simply regards him with a calculative look until she says: ''If you're happy.'' 

Teaching is an inferior calling to purebloods. No matter how ridiculously esteemed Hogwarts may be, it's seen as an old maid's business or a failed man's endeavour. For that description he thinks of McGonagall and Snape.

The latter avoids him like he will catch something if they so much as speak. The former doesn't avoid him, but doesn't seek him out.

Pomona Sprout and Filius Flitwick and Iris Selwyn and so many more of the staff leave Hogwarts post haste. Some even board the train with the students if only to leave faster. Students whisper and rumours spread.

Rumours have some truth in them. Everyone knows that Lord Voldemort has come to their school and simply not left.

His mind is piecing together and the exhaustion that's caught up with him settles in a pace he can keep up with. This is all due to Hogwarts' magic.

The Forbidden forest beckons him and Voldemort goes into it like he has as a boy. The rustling trees aren't as foreboding as in night. He strolls through. Light seeps through the tree tops and casts intricate shadows below. A sense of belonging wells in his chest, but he doesn't let it overcome him because he knows that he may belong at Hogwarts, but he doesn't at all forget the discombobulation of those around him.

Some of the children these past few days have looked at him with abject horror and avoided meeting his gaze. Teaching will be hard with such a classroom.

He finds a den of snakes curled up and hissing.

''_ Food? Are you food?'' _

''_Move. Something is watching. Go away, you two-legged thing! You're blocking the sun'' _

Voldemort steps out of the way and the snake lets out a grateful hiss as it lazes on the sunny patch of grass.

''_Who is this creature?'' _

''_The speaker? Looks like it.'' _

''_No, I think it is something else.'' _

''_Hello.'' _Voldemort hisses at them.

''_The speaker is back!'' _it's joy. Some of the snakes wiggle and go to meet him.

He is reminded of magical snakes and their incredibly long life spans. Crouching down in a position where petting them is not as awkward, he hisses back at them, asking them about this and that. They bemoan his lack of being here. They hiss and scold and demand to know why he hasn't brought them mice to feed.

''_I did not know you were even alive.'' _Voldemort confesses because to find the same snakes he's spoken to as a sixteen year old is beyond odd.

One snake scoffs at him, actually scoffs. The others laugh at his stupidity. He's always loved how actual snakes are much more genuine than the snakes from his House.

An insistent snake that isn't satisfied with simply being pat demands he wrap her around his neck. It's fashionable. All of the other two-legged things have snakes around their throats to warm each other.

Voldemort doesn't have the patience to explain scarves to snakes, so he just does what she asks of him. She's very pretty. Purple and red with all sorts of black patterns that somehow fit on her scales. Magic is fickle with creation. Salazar Slytherin used to breed snakes in the forest and these are probably their descendants.

He goes to Hogwarts like that, asking her time and time again if she would like to return. She hisses no each time and tells him to stop asking her.

''_I have never been inside the big stone.'' _

Well, Voldemort can't have that. Everyone deserves to see Hogwarts at least once.

He takes the snake on a tour. Now that there aren't any students around it is much easier to navigate.

They go past paintings and it's nice to actually take the time to see what's changed and what has remained the same. Peeves keeps glaring at him. Voldemort is undeterred.

The elves remember him as the polite Head Boy and they keep asking him if he would like to eat food. He declines and says later.

The snake inquires about the tapestries. Voldemort tries to jog his memory as to what these two old crotchety wizards shouting at each other with loads of slugs and toads thrown in for decoration mean.

"_I don't know…" _

"_Peh." _

Voldemort moves forward to a few armours that when tapped with a wand come to life and dance with you. He does not tap them much to the dismay of the giddy snake.

_"I want to stay here. I love it here." _

There is a rule about bringing animals to Hogwarts as familiars, but he is staff and everyone can bugger off.

"_Fine." _Voldemort hisses. He'll indulge.

The two reach the seventh floor and the wizard thinks about checking up on his horcrux locked up in the Room of Hidden Things, but remembers who else the castle listens to and thinks better not. Minerva McGonagall cannot be trusted, merely tolerated. He passes by the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and stands in front of it, feeling somehow equally as barmy as the wizard depicted.

The snake hisses at it. Barnabas hisses back.

Voldemort startles into attention. It isn't parseltongue. It's just madness radiating off of the man. Does he seem like this to people when he speaks the snake tongue? Abraxas certainly doesn't like him speaking it, says that it's strange not to know what others are saying.

''You could be hissing them orders to kill me, for all I know!''

''Abraxas,'' he remembers answering back in the form of an exasperated tease, ''snakes are not nearly as compliant as you think them.''

A laugh escapes him at the memory. A snarl greets him return.

It's a very mousy voice. A very familiar mousy voice.

Water trickles and seeps into the corridor he is in. A very familiar corridor.

The snake around him demands to know what is going on. A larger, more dormant snake asks if he'll visit.

Lord Voldemort passes by the water, his shoes getting wet but he'll charm them dry later. For now his body moves of its own accord. The snake around his throat stops its hissing, knowing how to read a room.

Moans slip. Yells escape. Angst flutters.

He continues warily on his quest.

A ghost's back greets him and he moves past the opening to the girl's lavatory.

Nobody is in sight to notice how he skips into a run when the ghost goes to turn around and face him.


	4. Chapter 4

September 1st is hectic to all involved in education. The students scream at one another. The prefects are haughty little finks that parade around and pretend to know what they're doing. The Head Boy and Girl are acting like they're the most important two students of the year. To add to the misery of those around them the two appear to be a couple if the hand holding is anything to go by.

However, the real chaos lies among the teaching staff. 

Severus Snape is scowling because he is a grief struck man that has no idea how terrifying he looks to the children.

Voldemort is looking at his notes and making some last minute changes. After the sorting ceremony is finished there will be introductions of new staff. Which this year seems abundant and wholly political.

Snape, Selwyn, and he are a small part of the change. Minerva has actually fired Binns. Which is something Voldemort approves of wholeheartedly. In his stead is a vampire whom the regime has appointed because he is the second cousin once removed of an important Death Eater. Tantalus Nott is the vampire's name.

Alex Jones, the only muggleborn of the staff, is chewing on her lip in a disgraceful manner. Sprout gives her a little squeeze on the shoulder to quell her natural apprehension. Nobody yet knows _ specifically _ what is to be done with muggleborns.

Purebloods are too busy reveling and taking care of political enemies to care about filth at the moment. They put this topic off like most put off the worst type of chore.

The pressure placed on this fairly young woman in her twenties is paramount to distinguish. If she proves well in her teaching position at the revised Muggle Studies then it's proof that muggleborns can be trusted to coexist with them. It's quite a lot, to represent an entire group of people, an entire, if one might be bold to describe, _ ethnicity _.

It is also incredibly unfair and the odds are calculated against her, but this woman is McGonagall's choice and the last thing she will ever do is let them kill muggleborn witches and wizards or put them down as second class citizens.

Voldemort watches Jones discreetly and thinks he'll sit one of her classes.

The obvious disproportion to the number of first years from his time to this spectacle in front of him is jarring. War has definitely killed off a lot of children and adults. Too many for anyone to be comfortable with muggleborn murder. They're a necessity. Voldemort regards the black robed children and wonders a bit about them. How many of them will go to Slytherin, how many will go elsewhere. How many will regret the Hat's decision and rue it to the end of their schooling.

The Hogwarts badge teachers get is pinned proudly to his dark violet robe. He runs the back of his hand across it in small disbelief to be wearing it. It's a greater honour than any Prefect's badge, any Head Boy badge - any bloody medal Abraxas keeps trying to push him into accepting.

Now that the war is over they concede to bread and circus. ''There needs to be a ceremony!'' his high, posh voice drawls, ''Bellatrix and you, side by side - but you a bit in front of her so nobody forgets who it is that STARTED this fight against liberalism and equality for all! Peh, equality for all but us purebloods, my lord. You'll accept an award - ooh I'll make sure to check if we can get you an Order of Merlin! Of course we can - you're _ Lord Voldemort! _''

Some older, unsorted students glare pointedly at the staff table, at him specifically. If looks could kill, thinks the revolutionary of a finished war.

Hogwarts education is compulsory. No more tutors and Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Lord Voldemort controls the children's future via their education and he controls the parents via their children. It's always been his most brilliant plot. The added bonus of Hogwarts does not go remiss.

''Look at all of those mud-'' Iris Selwyn whispers to Flitwick who with a lightning speed flick of his wand has silenced her. She presses her lips into a thin, pensive line.

McGonagall glances at her from her Headmistress' chair and smugly smirks only for a second or two before returning to her joyous expression of seeing Hogwarts full of children, as it should always be.

Their staff meeting of two days ago surfaces in Voldemort's mind.

''This is a school, above all else.'' Minerva McGonagall has no tolerance for the new regime. This much is known. Being powerless to stop them from changing the curriculum the conniving witch picks her battles more wisely and never falters. The summer she's spent getting used to the castle and vice versa has helped her utilise Hogwarts magic in a way only its favoured can.

A suffocating feeling embarks upon Snape, Selwyn, and Nott. Hogwarts cannot push him for it doesn't want to. This does not stop McGonagall from continuing. Her fir wand taps in her palm. It is called the survivor's wand. His is the wand of the power hungry.

''There will be no slurs thrown about in my castle or on its grounds. Respect Hogwarts and act professionally like it is demanded of you.'' She looks at him. Needlessly, he wishes to say, but doesn't as that will rile her up even more.

Pomona Sprout holds the Hat and reads out the names. Percentually there's an even number of muggleborns with halfbloods this year. The purebloods dominate, however. Not by much. But they do and everyone will be happy to hear that.

The older students whose parents have been threatened with death go to the stool one by one and are sorted. The one that glared at him is sorted into Hufflepuff of all things and he knows for a fact that Hufflepuffs are killers who don't get caught. However, as Voldemort is an adult he refuses to be intimidated by a potential threat. He does make a note to remember the child's name: Tina Shacklebolt. Possible relation to Kingsley Shacklebolt, known Order member. Killed, of course. There aren't any public enemies on the loose, thank you. Abraxas Malfoy disallows any and all loose ties.

The actual first years wobble and are terrified, but determined. In a way he envies this doe-eyedness of theirs. The feeling of entering Hogwarts for the first time and glancing up at the enchanted sky. One child mentions that he's read about it in Hogwarts: A History. Most are too busy enjoying the magic to care.

The last first year to be sorted is: ''William Weasley!'' Without the Hat touching his head (Voldemort is convinced) William Weasley is sorted into Gryffindor.

It's so easy to forget that this is an institution of learning. Lord Voldemort remembers Dippet's speech at the beginning of every year. For centuries it has remained the same. Minerva McGonagall has inherited it.

While it's being narrated by a rather good orator, if McGonagall' lack of fumbling and fear of public speaking is to show for - Voldemort glances around the tables.

Oddly enough there's only three new Slytherins. A horrible amount of Ravenclaws. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are tied. None of the Slytherins are muggleborns. This isn't to say that the children raised by muggles can't show any Slytherin traits like cunning or ambition, but that it's safer for them elsewhere.

The semantics of all of that aren't something he has the nerve to attempt to dismantle right this moment, so Voldemort applauds Minerva McGonagall's speech like a good colleague.

Everyone is introduced. While the teachers are stating things about their subject and how they'll be conducting their lessons some children mumble among themselves. When it is time for ''Professor Voldemort, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor'' to say a few words complete silence greets him. Those that try to speak are shushed in fear of repercussions.

Like a switch goes off Voldemort amps up his charisma and politician's posturing. He stands tall and doesn't slouch which is important. When speaking he makes sure his diction is perfect and clear. The words don't flee, but rather march out meaningfully past his lips. Everything he does is controlled. ''Thank you, Headmistress McGonagall.'' he turns to the children and some stare at him in awe. No doubt wishing to be future Death Eaters.

''Defence Against the Dark Arts is a fairly recent name change. I will not only teach you how to defend yourselves from Dark magic as the title misleads, but also from any magic. In truth all magic has the ability to harm - darkness or light is merely regarded through bureaucracy and bylaws.''

Voldemort can feel the hungry gazes of overachievers begin to burn holes in him. It's rather nice, this feeling of being watched of being respected not for his ability to kill but by his ability to intrigue and entice bold, new minds into learning.

''I can teach you more than you can possibly imagine, if you only pay attention and show a will to learn. This is your education; do not _ squander _it.'' Professor Voldemort lets his words hang in the air for a few seconds before sitting down gracefully.

His position at the staff table isn't ideal. The ideal one would be right next to the Headmistress' chair to signify rank and hierarchy. Pomona Sprout and Filius Flitwick are at both of her sides respectively.

On the left with Sprout there's a good portion of staff that hasn't been changed. Septima Vector, Aurora Sinistra, Silvanus Kettleburn (and his very few limbs), Sybil Trelawney (who actually bursts into tears when he tells her he was flattered to be involved in a prophecy), Bathsheda Babbling (not really her babbling self if her stone-facedness is any indication), and the new transfiguration professor, hand-picked by McGonagall but thoroughly checked and approved by the Board of Governors where Lucius presides: a halfblood named Persephone Smith. Outstanding on her Transfiguration NEWT, written recommendation from a well-known Transfiguration master. Gryffindor during Minerva McGonagall's time as her Head of House.

On the right with Flitwick is a much newer story: Iris Selwyn, Alex Jones (peering at the muggle studies textbook like one would a car crash, unable to look away from the horror), Madam Hooch (keeps trying to tell jokes, but nobody is laughing at them), Voldemort, Tantalus Nott (sipping incredibly loudly on a glass of blood), and Severus Snape (stoic and friendless as he deserves - Voldemort doesn't know what to do with the traitor yet. Once he figures that out there'll be a new ad out for the Potions master)

Hogwarts hisses and lulls his magic into peaceful harmony.

The children sing that awful, _ awful _song.

_ Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, _

_ Teach us something please, _

_ Whether we be old and bald, _

_ Or young with scabby knees, _

Iris Selwyn sniggers, hiding her laugh with a handkerchief and a well timed cough when Jones inquires about what exactly is funny in showing some school pride. Selwyn shakes her head and says that it's all right, but that she's never sung it from the shame alone. Voldemort remembers opening and closing his mouth but never singing along, truly.

_ Our heads could do with filling, _

_ With some interesting stuff, _

_ For now they're bare and full of air, _

_ Dead flies and bits of fluff, _

Laughter seems to be a contagious epidemic because Hooch scoffs and breathes air out of her nose rather laughter-like. She's staring at Flitwick conducting the children. The man is completely engrossed. Hooch has enough pedagogic pride and sense not to laugh at the children, but rather their ardent conductor whose hair madly flutters in his eyes with every sudden and passionate movement. It's when his glasses slide off from the sweat he's worked up that Nott joins in the madness and snorts into his drink, some blood splashing his face.

_ So teach us things worth knowing, _

_ Bring back what we've forgot, _

_ Just do your best, we'll do the rest, _

_ And learn until our brains all rot. _

Snape sneers derisively and Voldemort turns to him to hear better what his Death Eater has to say to this. His scathing commentary never ceases to amaze. The young man of twenty-two glares and there isn't anything new here, but the words dripping with poison don't promise anything positive or pedagogical.

''Their brains are all rot to begin with and no amount of singing can help them.'' As if toasting himself, Snape raises a glass of wine first and then drains it.

Voldemort doesn't laugh along with the staff. He looks at this disappointed man turned Death Eater turned spy turned disappointed man and looks away.

His crimson gaze travels up to the Headmistress and she catches it in a vice grip. It lasts, perhaps two-three seconds at most - but it's enough. The ice subsides at her deathly cat eyes. He wonders if he can tell the difference between an ordinary cat and her. Some books say that true animagi know how to mask their magic when in animal form.

Once the Feast is finished and the children are all taken to their Houses, the teachers dissipate. Some go and prepare their lessons tomorrow, checking their schedules. Tomorrow, Voldemort looks and blinks oddly. He's got first years and seventh years tomorrow. That's a shift. It is nothing _ Professor _Voldemort cannot handle, nonetheless.

His new quarters aren't underneath the Hogwarts Lake where mermaids come from time to time to wave. The dorms in Slytherin have large windows looking directly into the lake. The shadows from the water and the lake algae flutter and dance as students try to sleep. It's never dark. The bioluminescent fish that may or may not be enchanted swim about.

No, his new quarters are the Defence professor's. They're located close to the Ravenclaw tower, seconds from the Defence classroom. The outside wall is lined with portraits of previous Defence professors that have managed to stay on for longer than a year.

His professor, Galatea Merrythought, is never inside her portrait. She's off somewhere, Voldemort doesn't know where. For as long as he's been at Hogwarts she's managed to avoid him. He wishes to speak to his favourite professor and ask her for pointers, but all in good time. They're bound to run into each other at some point.

The inside of the room is quiet. There's spell upon spell upon ward to protect him from people that might decide to kill him in his sleep- haHA his own immortality is killing him rather nicely without anyone's help, thank you- but it's also a precaution so nobody decides to visit him.

Hogwarts listens to McGonagall and Bellatrix Black is barred from entry. Watching her best friend's murderer on sacred ground is an insult none are bold enough to inflict.

Hogwarts listens to Voldemort and Abraxas Malfoy is barred from entry. This is something he needs to do by himself. He doesn't need that peacock bird following him around everywhere.

When he climbs into bed and pulls the covers over himself he's reminded of how cold Scotland is. This is remedied by a quick warming charm.

Upon Voldemort's decision to go to Hogwarts and stay indefinitely, he's not expected to avoid staying in the dungeons. The Slytherin Head of House is Snape who's one step away from killing every student in the vicinity and then offing himself in some proclamation of twisted love for a woman that has never been interested in him.

The view from his room is out to the Lake, yes, but from above and a few hundred metres away from it. Only when he cranes his neck does he catch a glimpse of its magnificence. He doesn't fancy this bird perspective. Not a bit.

A plus side is that the Forbidden Forest is lovely. The trees rustle in the breeze and sing. No, that isn't the problem, at all. The distance from the Lake isn't even the worst thing.

The cottage where the Half-Giant somehow _ still _lives is the biggest eye-sore. He stares out of his room and bloody Rubeus Hagrid is close enough to stare back.

With a swish, the window closes and the curtains drape across it.

But then it's too dark. It's always light in Slytherin. It may be in the dungeons, but it's never a proper night there. He doesn't untangle the curtains, instead he rises from bed and goes to revise his lesson for tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

Upon waking up Voldemort takes three potions. One's Vitamix to help him get out of bed and remain out of it. Second's there to subside the condensation in his chest, the tightness breathing elicits - it's to thaw the ice, if only a little bit. Third's the most foul tasting and hardest to stomach: the Girding Potion. Gives the taker extra endurance; which he does need, as humiliating as that is to say.

Not once has he taken it during war. Not once has he even whiffed it to help him wage battle and revolution. Now that the promise of traumatic death is gone and all have dissolved into peace he finds himself needing that extra push. It is a good thing he brews his own potions. Snape he does not trust. Not at all. Owls he, too, does not trust to hand him the correct post.

Moody's infamous shout of constant vigilance rings true. Voldemort retches and clasps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from throwing up while the potion slides down his sore throat. Tears prickle in the corner of his eyes.

The fireplace in his room sizzles. Someone is attempting to fire call him. Voldemort waves his wand to check who it is that's calling. It's from Malfoy Manor. Quickly he moves his wand and Abraxas Malfoy's distraught face pops up in the flames. ''The MUE's demands are madness, my lord!''

''How so?'' Voldemort inquires as he moves to the fireplace to get a better view.

Malfoy then begins, in ardent and explicit detail, to list the things they demand. In reality, Voldemort knows that this power struggle in Britain is something that's been allowed by more important parties. An eleven year old war does not exist unless it suits powerful people for it to exist. Everyone remembers that the previous Ministry of Magic's workers are all incompetent schmucks that pander to Dumbledore and his Reverse-Grindelwald rhetoric. This is a reconstruction from the ground up. There is a lot to be done, not only domestically, but also with international forces.

''They seem reasonable.''

''They're going against your bloody manifesto! Leniency for mudbloods and the like. I didn't fight for this.''

''No, neither did I. I fought for power.  _ Keep it _ , Malfoy. Don't let it slip through our fingers. The MUE is just there to figure out if we're on their side. We are. They don't need to know anything else. Now, how goes the wizengamot project?''

''I'm not on it out of obvious conflict of interest.'' Abraxas Malfoy says and proves that he has sense left. ''There'll be elections probably. Lucius will throw his name in.''

Voldemort doesn't approve. ''He's already on the board of governor for Hogwarts. Have Narcissa throw her hat in the ring.''

** _''Narcissa?''_ **

''Merlin forbid the MUE think we're not progressive enough for them.'' Voldemort says. ''Narcissa's smart. It's a good fit.''

Abraxas Malfoy looks horrified. This is not at all what he's expected from running a new world while the true leader that's supposed to be leading it spends time with children in  _ Scotland _ . ''I have a theory, my lord, that you have timed this perfectly.'' bitterness seeps into his voice and Voldemort doesn't refute it, but doesn't accept this theory either, ''You got us past the threshold of power and now that we're inside the Ministry and now that we have the power I'm the one that's fighting to keep it. Everyone will laud you and blame me for concessions.''

Voldemort hasn't the time to be lectured by an ungrateful man given work when all he knows is how to blow it off. Malfoy relishes in power, it's a genetic thing with them if Lucius is any indication. ''If my task has proved too much for your capabilities, Abraxas,'' he speaks in an airy, non-judgemental tone of voice, ''then I give you permission to find someone suitable to transfer it on. Consult me with your pick and if I approve you will be freed of all administrative burden.''

The look on Abraxas' face is priceless. Voldemort's face, in turn, is stony and cold. Occlumency shields firmly in place. ''No!'' Abraxas shouts. ''No, no! You misunderstood me, my lord. I misspoke. My apologies. Have a wonderful term. Goodbye.''

''Goodbye, Abraxas.'' Voldemort smiles as the call sizzles out. He looks briefly at the time and goes to class, having mixed breakfast.

His first class is the first year Gryffindor-Ravenclaw combination. Voldemort thinks it's a blessing that he doesn't know whose children these are. They look at him in silence and wait until he speaks. He greets them with a polite ''Good morning.'' and they all respond the same; some replies are shaky (these are the children of magical families who have been warned off), some aren't as much (these are the children of non-magical families who have not yet been warned off)

They're so small and they all cling to one another. Skimming their surface thoughts he figures they're all worried that he might kill them if they breathe wrong. Which in any other situation may be a preferable reaction to Lord Voldemort's presence, but not now when he wants to teach them.

Voldemort stands from his desk and tells them that they'll be learning about vampires. It's a precaution because there are so many stereotypes regarding that species that getting anything wrong whilst in danger can lead to Death. Plus, the children have the highest incentive to learn this because of their History professor. Not that Nott is capable of biting a cat let alone a child, but that isn't anything these children need to know.

''First recorded sighting was in the Illyrian period in the Balkan area, the current Yugoslavia to be precise. Vampires habitually take to forests and graveyards - the soil of their homeland helps stabilize them. I'm certain if you ask your History professor that he might show you that he's got a pocket full of English dirt. ''

A gryffindor from the first row that's only been furiously writing down everything he's said in the exact way he's said it raises his hand. Well, his first question. Voldemort peers at the boy and speaks.

''Yes, Mr…''

''Davies, sir.'' Davies replies and goes for his question: ''Is it true that a stake through the heart can kill them for good? Or is that just in films?''

A Ravenclaw makes a face that is unmistakably similar to a Death Eater of his, Bulstrode. ''Films?'' she wonders and giggles with some of her friends. ''Those are muggle. _ Ew _ .''

Voldemort looks at them and the laughter immediately subsides. Once he has everyone's attention he answers the boy. ''Mr. Davies, muggles are not the greatest when it comes to getting magical facts correct.''

Laughter bubbles from the pureblood corner. He can tell by their new robes and their golden quills. Davies' cheeks blush red.

''A stake through the heart is the closest a muggle can get to incapacitating a vampire. The trauma from such an injury paralyses them and unless they have a gallon or so of blood nearby to feed on and restore themselves they fall into a deep sleep, so to speak. It's not death, but neither is it living.''

''Like a coma.'' Davies nods and writes down all of this, a smile playing across his face.

''Precisely.'' Voldemort lets a pleased glint enter his eyes as he regards Davies, ''Two points to Gryffindor.''

The Ravenclaws are horrified. However, the Gryffindors seem even more surprised to earn a point. The children begin to think that it's okay to speak up, to ask questions. The cult around him depicting Voldemort as a tyrant slowly deflates and lets them see this as a classroom with a teacher.

He turns to the rest of the class now and continues teaching: ''While muggles do not know better, magical kind does and this is what separates us from such crippling ignorance. Your only true chance of survival is utilising a solar spell.  _ Sol invoca _ is the incantation. We'll be practising it today.''

The class splits into teams of five to practise.

His wand moves, the incantation is said, and a flash of light encompasses the entire classroom.

''If enough power is used, vampires will burn to ash on sight.'' The wand moves in the opposite direction and the light vanishes to reveal small faces drenched in awe.

Except one girl from Ravenclaw that thrusts out her hand faster than light. ''Yes, Miss…''

''Wilson,'' another muggleborn student shows an interest while the magically familiar students passively go through the motions, Voldemort notes. Bulstrode and her little entourage are whispering to each other about things that are not class-related. He has half a mind of taking points, but today he'll let it slide. It's the first day of school. Everyone's an excited idiot on their first day.

''What's your question, Miss Wilson?''

Her face scrunches up as she goes about phrasing it. ''Professor Voldemort, what's the difference between the lumos spell of light and sol invoca? I have read about lumos in my charm's book. All of this is fairly new and I'm wondering why we can't use lumos against vampires- it's both light right?''

Lord Voldemort whispers Nox and there is darkness in the classroom. A little girl lets out a startled yelp at the sudden shift and he can't help but crack a smile at the youthfulness.

''This is an important question and for that you get five points, Miss Wilson.'' the Ravenclaws smugly look at each other. This is a competitive bunch. Wilson grins widely and it's a smile of mismatched teeth.

Davies keeps on writing, face determined and lips pulled back in concentration. Bulstrode is watching keenly for once. Wilson keeps her eyes wide to take it all in.

''The lumos charm is not dissimilar to turning on a lamp. Light powered by electricity does not hurt vampires. The sun does.'' He invokes the sun with the spell again and it starts off small, dashing his previous spell of darkness to prove a point. ''Sol invoca is the power to harness a small portion of a star around which planets turn. Without its power we would all have frozen over a long, long time ago and never been born.''

Muggleborns and halfbloods remember lessons in geography and science. Purebloods blink at this information and take it in because it must be true if the dark lord is saying it.

Once the darkness completely quells and everything goes back to normal does Voldemort pull back his wand and flick it off. ''Doesn't it make sense that vampires, magical creatures, could only be brought down by a spell that invokes the power of the Sun, rather than any light spell?''

Everyone nods and mutters affirmatively.

''Though,'' Voldemort adds as an afterthought once everyone has finished writing down all of this, ''a lumos can blind one temporarily.''

The split groups practise the spell. Some prove successful. Bulstrode does hers on her first try. Wilson struggles and he goes to help her, guiding her arm and correcting her pronunciation. Davies doesn't need any help. By the end of the lesson most have gotten and those that haven't are told to practise as homework.

''If even by our next class you can't manage the spell I'll think about making a remedial after school class.''

Those that haven't mastered the spell, wizards and witches like Mr. Wagtail, Miss Goyle, Mr. Duke, and Mr. Selwyn all look folron at the possibility.

Davies is just about to ask about homework when, as if having a sixth sense for know-it-alls, Bulstrode shoves him hard out of the classroom.

''Goodbye, Professor.'' the pure and halfbloods stumble over his name while the not yet completely filled in muggleborns chorus, ''Professor Voldemort.''

His next class is a bit less forward than his first.

The Slytherin Hufflepuff combination of first years proves as a rather good blend. Hufflepuffs are mostly silent observers that only when their sensibilities of right and wrong are truly shaken rise up to fight. Whilst Slytherins have always sworn revenge at any and all bad things dealt to them. They're smart enough, however, to know how to play the long game. Gryffindors duel it out on the spot, but snakes remember.

He goes through the Sol invoca spell with them rather fast. Most get it. There are a few that struggle, but even they manage it by the end of the class. No one asks any questions.

The three slytherins in a predominantly hufflepuff (seventeen hufflepuffs, dear Merlin) environment rarely talk. No one scores any points by questions alone, but to award them paying attention he does give each child a point for getting the spell correctly. It seems fair enough.

Them he gives homework because Voldemort has absolutely no idea what any of them are like. Terrifyingly quiet class. No personality. It's like talking to a brick wall, but magic brick walls sometimes even talk back.

''By next class I want a twelve inch essay on what other spells are good at handling vampires.'' Groans meet him. That's good. That's actual character. He doesn't glare at them in fear of them completely shutting down and being too terrified of speaking to him. Doing what he's been doing for the past eleven years has honestly ruined his chance at working with children. Voldemort refuses to let that get to him. ''Failure to do that will have dire consequences.''

A child whimpers. Voldemort suspects it's a small Hufflepuff because he's looking at the three Slytherins and remembers how it was twenty when he was a child. A girl with glasses is whispering to the tallest girl about how they've just learned how to kill their History professor. The third girl looks at them as if wanting to tattle, but deciding not to because she can't just tattle on them because of flimsy words.

''Slytherins.'' the girls look at him. ''Stay after class.'' They nod without retort.

The Hufflepuffs all file out in an orderly fashion which is just the most Hufflepuff thing to be done. The Gryffindors saunter out as quickly as possible while the Ravenclaws drag themselves mechanically, their sharp wit on standby as they're tackling some subject of interest in their mind.

For the most part the girls are rather stiff and keeping their cool whilst in front a leader of a new wizarding Britain. That aside they're quiet. He doesn't know anything about this new generation.

''My lord,'' one girl, black haired with a long face, bows.

''While I am thrilled to see that your parents have taught you how to curtsy, whilst in Hogwarts you are to address me as Professor Voldemort, Miss…''

She looks embarrassed as she gives out her name: ''Griselda Murphy, Professor.'' Ah, halfblood surname. Proper enough to rub elbows with the sacred twenty-eight, but not enough to be truly invited anywhere important.

Voldemort nods and looks to the other two girls. ''Wilhelmina Burke,'' the tallest introduces herself. He doesn't ask her questions about her heritage because if he figures out she's at all related to  _ Borgin and Burke's _ Burke he will fail her out of a spite he's been carrying in his heart since 1945. Voldemort wishes a lot of things for his enemies to go through, but working in retail is not one of them.

Then Voldemort turns to the girl with glasses and asks for her name. She makes him wait by adjusting her glasses and taking in a little breath people need to compose themselves, ''Zara Avery.''

Avery. Avery is his  **first ** marked Death Eater, rather eager fellow to see mudbloods and those alike burn. ''Are you related to Zephyr Avery?''

''He's my grandfather!'' Avery beams at him. ''He's told me a lot about you over the summer, Professor!''

Merlin, Voldemort thinks, I'm teaching my Death Eaters'  _ grand _ children.

Thankfully enough it's Burke that grabs the two other girls and says that they should be going else they'll be late for Muggle Studies. Murphy abhors the mere idea of the class. As they're on their way Voldemort warns them that if they think to use this spell against professor Nott that the school staff will not be lenient.

A practised Slytherin smile graces all three eleven-year old heads.

''Of course,'' Burke says. Avery nods along profusely, her eyes too honest for it to be truthful. Murphy just looks at them like she knows they're lying, but weighs that it's better if she doesn't bring it up. They leave.

While Voldemort waits for his new class he reclines in his seat and takes out his teaching plan. Checks off the first years and prepares for the seventh year NEWT level class that will finally engage him. It's strange, that after decades of pining after this position a war's all it took to get him here.

It's a fairly small class of ten. Interests change and most opt out of Defence unless they want to be aurors or specialized curse breakers or creature trackers. The class consists of four Gryffindors, a Ravenclaw, three Hufflepuffs, and two Slytherins.

The air in the classroom is different. Their magic is tamer, more pronounced. Matured with age. This is the generation that would have gone into war had Voldemort not yet won. It's amusing to see potential soldiers and pawns in young witches and wizards.

They go through greetings and introductions.

Tina Shacklebolt and her glacial demeanour Voldemort remembers from the sorting ceremony. Still bitter about being dragged from her school of choice by the new conservative laws making Hogwarts the only school for British witches and wizards. It's for the best. She has enough sense not to glare at him anymore. Which does paint her as someone who  _ does  _ want to live.

One of the other two Hufflepuffs wears a yellow scarf on her head and says that she's ''Latifa Shafiq.'' Pureblood. Sacred twenty-eight, even. Voldemort expects great things from the elite.

The only Hufflepuff boy is called: ''James Travers.'' also a pureblood. But not from a prominent family. Smugglers, that lot. Helped the Order more than they kissed up to Malfoy. He nudges into his mind and seamlessly finds out that his father's under investigation for aiding the enemy. Well. This better not impede his ability to keep up in class because Voldemort has zero tolerance for personal problems.

The Gryffindors list their names but he only catches their surnames because he really doesn't care. Miss Abbott, Mr. Macmillan, Miss Fawley, and Mr. O'Neil. The last one's muggleborn and looking absolutely terrified and failing at hiding it. Abbott holds his hand under the desk and Voldemort pretends not to notice.

The Ravenclaw (Rosier, he can tell by those disinterested cow eyes that entire bloody family has) sits next to the Slytherins. He's the first to open the book and skim through the table of contents page. It's quite obvious by the way Rosier isn't actually reading that this is solely done to avoid eye contact. Warned off by his Death Eater relatives no doubt. Lord Voldemort being an expert legilimens is an open secret in almost all circles.

The Slytherins are both young men. One name he recognizes instantly: ''Lestrange Roderick.''

''You're Abraxas Malfoy's godson.'' Voldemort blurts out because time has caught up with him and he remembers Abraxas Malfoy bemoaning additional responsibility to that putrid family seventeen years ago. Yet when Voldemort told him not to go through with it Abraxas looked aghast at the prospect of refusing being someone's godparent. These things are not something to refuse,  _ ever _ . It's a slap to the face to that entire family's lineage.

The Lestrange beams and looks proud of this connection being made public knowledge. ''Yes,'' he haughtily says, ''I am.'' He, no doubt, expects a treatment drenched in nepotism.

''Good, I expect a lot from the Lestrange family. Your cousins Rabastan and Rodolphus are diligent wizards.'' The boy's face falls. Crumbles like a stack of cards right before a quidditch mad player whizzes past it on a broom. ''Do not disappoint.''

Then the last Slytherin mutters his name, as if ashamed - which is unfathomable because Slytherins proclaim their names like they're royal. ''Jimmy Green.''

''Green _ grass _ ?'' Voldemort cranes his ear to hear. Can these children not mumble, thank you.

Lestrange bursts into laughter. ''Jimmy Green, my lord! He's a  **mudblood** .''

There's a moment of complete, utter silence. The class waits. For a reaction? For detention? For praise? For dimisall of a slur being used?

Voldemort opens his mouth to say that this is a classroom and that there are rules in place that prohibit such language - but Green shouts: ''Shut up, Lestrange! My great-grandmother's a Prewett.''

''Sure, but your grandmother's a squib and your mother's a  _ muggle _ , Green. That's how it works. Squibs don't give birth to squibs.'' Lestrange grins widely, enjoying the attention this fight promises. Green is shaking, losing composure. It's cracking away and Lestrange keeps pushing. ''Two muggles can't make anything other than a mudblood. Don't pretend you're people when you aren't, Green.''

Tina Shacklebolt then gestures and asks if he'll do anything. ''With this new regime this is okay? In Durmstrang they teach you dark magic but there's a zero tolerance policy for bullying and this is bullying on an ethnic level-''

''Durmstrang only allows halfbloods and purebloods, Miss Shacklebolt,'' Voldemort tells her in a very strict voice he hopes does not make room for a fight. ''They've completely eliminated muggleborns from learning in their institution.''

Shacklebolt looks even more ready to fight. Miss Shafiq tries to placate her.

Mr. Rosier speaks up, ''Professor, what is the correct nomenclature for them,'' gestures O'Neil and Green, ''now that the conservative party has won? Mudblood?'' O'Neil flinches at the word said so nonchalantly. Green glares at Lestrange who keeps snickering.

Miss Abbott and the rest of the Gryffindors are asking political questions before Voldemort can answer him. ''What's next? Is this a new age of fascism? Is anyone that isn't a pureblood Death Eater going to be enslaved? What about the muggles - are they free game to kill now? Muggleborns expect to be walked over by the oh-so-holier boot -''

Voldemort takes out his wand because this is getting out of control, but Shafiq asks a very important question that stills him from casting a few silencios. ''Professor, has the MUE given you their demands?''

He silences everyone except for her. Smiling because finally he can start explaining this from a question that isn't accusing and misinformed.

''Let me start off by saying that Miss Shafiq should get ten points for being the only NEWT level student that's capable of cognitive thought.'' Voldemort hisses and his crimson eyes gleam dangerously. Green flinches into his seat next to Lestrange, and the latter doesn't look any better.

Having successfully terrified the class into compliance and submission, Voldemort runs a hand through his hair and smiles. ''War,  _ children _ , is a different matter than peace.'' Rosier mouths 'obviously' and Voldemort lets it slide. ''Things that are excusable whilst in war are not in peace. There is this very important political organ called the Magical Union of Europe which oversees the work of all Ministries of Magic in Europe. With this change in leadership they've sent a few demands to be checked off. What this means, Miss Shacklebolt,'' he addresses the teenager, ''is that there are rules to be followed in order for power to be had. Did you honestly expect that purebloods would just start killing  _ muggleborns, _ '' looks then at Rosier who nods. O'Neil and Green glance at Lestrange who's trying not to die of mortification.

Bug eyed children greet him and Voldemort sighs.

''In a new socio-political world we're entering those of you that want to have their voice heard better shout.'' he tells them and when they look at him dumbly he further elaborates, putting away his wand and using power of speech and persuasion. ''Vote. We're changing the Ministry form the inside out. Vote for Wizengamot members you think may represent you best. There'll be elections.''

''They'll all be rigged.''

''Less so than before.'' Voldemort doesn't deny it. What he does is bring clarity. ''The youngest wizengamot member right now is 135.''

Miss Fawley whistles.  _ ''Youngest _ ?''

''Do you think that this is acceptable?'' Voldemort asks the new generation of voters and ministry officials and citizens of their new world. ''Do you think this person knows what your generation needs to have done in order to be represented properly?''

Uncomfortable 'no's cross throughout the classroom.

''Currently we're cleaning out the wizengamot, making sure that things that we want in place take root in said place.'' He looks directly at Green then and doesn't numb his piercing gaze, ''When we figure out what to do with muggleborns, we'll figure it out in a very public manner. Try reading the Daily Prophet for information before you attack people politically.'' this last bit is aimed at the shouty Gryffindors who have the grace to look chastised.

''Prophet's full of propaganda!'' Shacklebolt says and there's murmurs of brave agreement from the Hufflepuffs. Gryffindors nod along and say that they don't even read the Prophet because it's always been full of libel.

''All sources of information are propaganda.'' Voldemort answers and goes to sit at his desk because his lesson has been derailed and it's too late to back out of it now. ''There isn't a single way of consuming information that isn't tinged with it. Stopping yourself from getting information only makes you weaker and uninformed. In order to beat politics you must first know what it is you want to beat.''

''Yeah, but what's the point if power is only held by the elite?'' Mr. Macmillan joins the conversation. ''It's better to be apolitical.''

''No,'' Voldemort says instantly, ''it is not, Mr. Macmillan.''

Casting a cursory glance to the time he sees that they have a minute left.

''There is a quote I want all of you to think on. We don't have to talk about it, but if you do have any questions I will be happy to answer them. I am here to teach you how to defend yourselves from spells, creatures, and  _ ignorance _ .''

The students nod. Tina Shacklebolt asks what the quote is.

''If you do not interfere in politics, politics will eventually interfere in your life.'' Voldemort quotes.

Only to add seconds after the class is marked over. ''Shacklebolt,  _ detention _ .''

''None for slur thrower over there?'' Shacklebolt nudges her head in Lestrange's direction. Lestrange glares at her. Though, this does put his authority on the line. His credibility as a neutral professor whose only job is to impart knowledge without bias in place.

This child needs to be taken several pegs down. Lord Voldemort dismisses the class safe for Lestrange and Shacklebolt. Lestrange he instructs to go to the Headmistress' office and ask her what punishment she deems fit for such an act of misconduct to all sensitive sensibilities like those Miss Shacklebolt has.

Lestrange bolts. Shacklebolt inhales and exhales as she's faced with him alone.

''Even with your stellar Durmstrang education of the dark arts, Miss Shacklebolt, it is idiotic for you to keep testing me like a petulant child whose toy has been replaced. Take your education where you can get it.''

''I hardly see why I should back down when you're intimidated by what I can do to your lessons.''

''Intimidated is a very unique way of saying annoyed, I should say.'' Voldemort breaks it to this girl who thinks she is more powerful than she is.

A reality check is in order.

He lets magic drip from his form in form of tendrils that crackle with electricity and envelop the classroom. The air grows thick with magic to breathe properly. Lord Voldemort steps closer to Shacklebolt who falters when pushed at by older, more powerful magic.

She takes out her wand, however much she is afraid, and aims it at him.

In one clean swoop he disarms her and pulls her arm behind her. Their magic fights. His domineering and ambitious and annoyed with hers. The continued twisting of her arm, the onslaught on her magic, and the humiliation of her being spoken down to ''Miss Shacklebolt, I do not blame youth for stupidity, what I do blame is your thinking that you would come out of this unpunished. I blame you for thinking  _ me  _ stupid.'' this yields victory when she begs around the thirty-second mark to be let go.

''Please,'' her voice breaks even though he's being pathetically mild. How  **juvenile** . ''I was just angry, Professor-''

''Then get a hobby to channel your frustrations. I know.'' his voice rises in a pleased lilt that sends a bolt of terror through her in which he revels. ''A  _ week  _ of detention ought to prove very productive for you.''

It's the way she nods to appease and just get out of his hold that has him letting out a mirthful scoff. He unhands her and she saunters forward without losing her footing. Their magic is disconnected and he sees hers erratically trying to regain control.

''Go to your next class. Tonight I expect you in the Trophy room. Ask someone to escort you if you don't know where it is.'' Lord Voldemort cordially speaks to her even though the mutual dissatisfaction is crystal clear.

Without a word, Shacklebolt picks up her things and leaves.

At Lunch people look at him oddly, but Hooch sits next to him as this is her seat. She asks him how class went.

''The children have completely derailed me.''

''First years?'' Hooch wonders in alarm. ''Eleven year old children bested the dark lord.''

''No,'' Voldemort hastens to correct her assumption, ''The graduates.''

''Oh.'' Snape adds from his end of the table. ''They're the  _ worst _ .''

Hooch gives him a smile in consolation and tells him that this generation, in particular, is horrible. ''How did you handle Lockhart?''

''Lockhart's sick.'' Filius Flitwick joins the conversation. ''Also, yes, he's in your class. It's just that there were last minute changes for his schedule. Instead of Arithmancy NEWTs he's opted out and wants to take Defence.''

''All right.'' Voldemort nods and adds a small +1 to his list of 7th year students. ''What is his illness?''

Hooch derisively snorts at that. ''Gilderoy Lockhart's acne has probably acted up, hasn't it?''

Filius Flitwick looks ashamed, as if this is the truth, as ridiculous as it may sound.

''Should I mark him as absent, then?'' Voldemort questions and Flitwick tells him not to.

''You're much better off not having him in your class at all.'' Minerva McGonagall involves herself in the conversation with words of divine wisdom not yet unearthed. She adds. ''I took twenty points from Slytherin from Lestrange. Ten points for each time he said mudblood.''

''All right.'' Voldemort says.

Snape points an accusatory finger at McGonagall and seethes: ''I took seventy points from Gryffindor.''

No one replies to this except Voldemort who just very quietly tells the man to sort himself out.


	6. Chapter 6

Muggle Studies is a class Lord Voldemort has always thought about changing. Ever since his time as a student, too. It was taught by a disinterested pureblood who wanted to teach History, but they weren't hiring that position. He took the class out of morbid curiosity to see what wizards thought of the world he had grown up in.

Professor Rowle (good riddance) thought that pencils were toothpicks muggles used because they didn't have a floss spell. A muggleborn, he remembered, was so sick of that class that she held remedial lessons just to help halfbloods and purebloods UNLEARN everything. It was the only class in Hogwarts that had truly disappointed him.

So, with incredibly lowered expectations, Lord Voldemort sits in on Alex Jones's class. Minerva McGonagall sits next to him to act as support where he acts as a figure to instill fear.

The children go to her class, see the added two professor sitting in the back, and balk. Alex Jones firmly, yet managing to sound kind, tells them to go sit down. The students who have to sit closest to the Headmistress and Lord Voldemort are very quiet and exchange glances from time to time.

Alex Jones begins the lesson with an introduction: ''Muggles are inferior.'' it's so strange, Voldemort muses, to teach something you do not believe in. ''Because they do not have magic. However, it would be impertinent to assume that because they lack magic that they do not prove a threat to magic kind.''

The class they're viewing is the OWLs class of all students. The classroom's big enough to fit a generation of Hogwarts. Gryffindors opt to sit close by Minerva McGonagall because they remember her as their Head of House. The Slytherins are farthest from them all, sitting in first rows and whispering how needless this class is and bemoaning it being mandatory. Yet because this is their dark lord's decree they're all in first rows to pay attention and learn what their lord demands of them. How positively Slytherin of them.

This is the only House that knows when to swallow its pride when the need arises for it.

''Today we'll be talking about things that muggles have achieved without magic.'' Alex Jones speaks clearly and holds herself together by sheer will. Minerva gives her a little nod that sets her mind at ease. Jones takes a hold of her notes and flicks through them.

Jones launches a talk about technology. She mentions the Moon Landing and a Slytherin that isn't buying this turns around to match eyes with Voldemort. Voldemort looks at him and nods. The boy looks even more confused as he turns back and writes down some things.

''Professor,'' the same Slytherin from before raises his hand now and interrupts Jones mid sentence.

''Yes, Mr. Crabbe?''

Crabbe's face scrunches up as he thinks. A wispy girl in green next to him elbows him in the gut to hurry him up. He winces, but does get through his question that must hurt quite a bit. ''Are muggles  _ competent _ ?''

A Gryffindor muggleborn lets out a loud snort. Another whispers under their breath: ''More than your mother when choosing who to have kids with.'' Giggles spread throughout that part of the classroom. Minerva McGonagall has an indifferent expression on her face, but her surface thoughts are rather agreeable with her lions.

''Well, just because they're different than you, Mr. Crabbe, it doesn't mean that you can rule out a majority of the world's population. Much to the dismay of many witches and wizards the magical population of the world is but a fourth. And it continues to become smaller and smaller each generation.'' Jones's lips curl and she looks at Crabbe directly in the eye. ''This is mostly because of inbreeding.''

A Ravenclaw  _ hollers _ .

Minerva shushes her. ''Miss Waters, please, keep inarticulate noises to yourself.''

Miss Waters wipes tears from her eyes and bites her fist to stop herself from screeching like a banshee. The purebloods all look miffed. The halfbloods know that one some level the only reason why halfbloods exist is so that the family line doesn't die out completely. The muggleborns are snickering amongst each other.

The Slytherin girl with sharp elbows raises her hand.

''Yes, Miss Yaxley?''

''That's all well and good,'' Miss Yaxley talks and Voldemort is reminded of Walburga Black's unwillingness to see reason, ''But they're filthy. They get diseases that magic cleanses from our systems. How does that prove that we're equal?''

Jones scrambles to correct this and says that she never said they were equal. Her starting sentence is of them being inferior to wizarding kind. ''If you read the revised Muggle Studies books, children, you'll see that muggles are not the same as us. For a lot of reasons. Not only them lacking in magic.''

''Yes!'' A hufflepuff girl says. ''We live longer.''

Voldemort has not found a single thing so far to reprimand or correct. Jones teaches the biased material, but she also doesn't tip-toe around giving the purebloods a proper picture of how the muggle world looks like. There's no such thing as a television in the muggle world. There aren't any mentions of computers. However, he does wish to see how she handles outward prejudice seeping from these children and their homes.

''It's true that witches and wizards live longer than muggles, but muggles are much more efficient with the time they have.'' Jones puts into words that which purebloods have been calling lies for centuries.

Voldemort's lip twitches briefly into a smile that falls into a pensive line post haste. McGonagall is the only one that sees.

''They are inferior,'' Jones hastens to add because this is a word that's in the book and if she doesn't stick by the book it'll end badly for her and muggleborns all around, ''but with the technological breakthroughs they have achieved since the witch trials and Hogwarts' fledgling era - it is imperative,'' what a strong word to use in a confused classroom, bold move, thinks Voldemort, ''that you get all of the facts. The Statute of Secrecy depends on us knowing how to blend in their world.''

Questions  _ boom _ . Jones is overwhelmed.

''Why should  _ we  _ have to blend in? I hardly see how a muggle can take a wizard down if I've got my magic!''

''Because if muggles find out we exist they'll most likely throw a bomb on us at some point to test out how strong our wards are. Muggles are mad scientists where we are researchers and enthusiasts of magical bedlam.''

''What's a bomb?'' one asks.

Jones falters. She tries to explain as best as she can. ''It's this device of destruction muggles have invented. There was an atomic bomb thrown in 1945, I don't know how much you know about World War II. It decimated thirteen square kilometres and then left radiation for decades later that can slowly kill those exposed to it.''

''Are we all going to  _ DIE _ ?''

Voldemort chokes on his own spit at the frightened question from a Slytherin. Minerva McGonagall looks at him. ''Professor, get a hold of yourself.''

''My apologies, Headmistress.''

Jones doesn't know how her class has dissolved into weapon talk but by the end she mentions child trafficking and kidnappings and the mafia and-

''If they're so dangerous!'' A pureblood Gryffindor turns to a Hufflepuff muggleborn nearby and demands, ''How are you not terrified of returning there without magic. What if you get attacked, how are you going to defend yourself?''

''With my fists?'' The fifteen year old girl raises them in bemusement. She looks just about ready to laugh her head off. ''These things aren't nearly as common as you think.''

''Yeah, OK, but what IF-''

Jones finally settles the class with a sonorous charm to her throat that amplifies her voice: ''Everyone, QUIET!''

McGonagall takes out her pocket watch and says that there's five minutes left. Voldemort nods and says that the class went well, all things considered.

''Yes,'' McGonagall whispers, ''Who helped write the revisions?''

''A few halfbloods, Richard Porter and Minerva Yaxley.''

''I find it hard to believe that any Yaxley would marry a non-pureblood.''

''Oh, Miss Yaxley was a bastard up until recently.''

''How progressive.''

''All magical blood is necessary.''

''But not equal?'' Minerva McGonagall asks with a knowing smile that's barely containing itself from becoming a frown.

''No.'' Voldemort answers her plainly. ''After Nobby Leach's impertinence muggleborns are going to have to play by our rules for a  _ very  _ long time.''

Minerva stands up and says that class is over and everyone can go to the Great Hall for dinner.

The first day is drawing to a close.

Before dinner both McGonagall and Voldemort cross-examine Jones and sink into her lesson planning with talons and venomous fangs. Minerva gives her pointers for teaching and managing a classroom. Jones nods and writes some of these things down. Voldemort informs her that she's doing her kind a service by not fighting the power at play.

''Thank you.''

''Don't thank me. You've got a whole year to muck something up.''

''Forgive me for finding it hard to speak so foully of my parents and so many muggles like them,'' at his unrelenting attention she softens her firm words, ''my lord.''

''Remember that we are in a transitional period, right now, Miss Jones.'' Voldemort says and lingers of his magic flare at the slightest bit of irritation. ''The MUE is a precaution so Grindelwald’s movement never resurrects. Do you know what Grindelwald wanted? You didn't live through his era, so allow me to enlighten you.''

Jones starts to say that this isn't necessary, but Voldemort is already pulling up a chair wandlessly next to her desk and telling her to sit down in her seat. She obliges with trepidation rolling off of her in abundance.

''Grindelwald didn't think himself above using muggles to achieve his goals. It's eerie how parallel he did everything with Hitler's Nazism. In 1919 Hitler begins his tour of pubs and ushering dissatisfied drunks into rallying with his cause. Germany, then, was punished in many ways. The economy was horrific, the people were jobless and poor - everyone was looking for someone to blame. Wizards blamed muggleborns who spring up out of nowhere and demand equal rights and jobs and money and all things that are hard to find. Muggles blamed the Jews. Hitler offered to muggles exactly the same thing Grindelwald offered pureblood wizards: stability.''

''Yes, except that Grindelwald took up arms first. Hitler didn't start fighting until 1939 when he staged that 'attack' at the border by dressing Germans in Polish uniform and attacking a German border control station all under the guise of Poland getting too cocky.''

''Hitler didn't need to fight until he was denied in 1939, Miss Jones.'' Voldemort grins now, elated to recount history with someone who knows it. ''Most of his territory he secured without firing a single bullet. It helped that Grindelwald had destabilised them first. The two wars fed each other and grew until America decided to finally get involved.''

''The Russians did all of the work.'' Jones says. Voldemort's doesn't deny that.

''It's interesting, though, that communism is one of the biggest reasons for Grindelwald's downfall, but it's underplayed by british arrogance and aristocratic notions of right and wrong. Hungary, his fatherland, has a very convoluted relationship with communism and fascism. To bring themselves out of depression they plot and trade with fascists, but also deal with the Soviets.''

Jones doesn't know where this conversation is going, has an idea that the initial point is coming closer to revealing itself, and continues to listen. Her History of Magic professor was Binns and aside from the Goblin revolutions nothing is in fact learned there.

''The Soviet Union invaded Hungary and Stalin demanded that Grindelwald be taken care of while the wizard's advancing West.. Because Churchill and Roosevelt were in leagues with Stalin only so they can destroy this fascism plague upon the world - they arranged the infamous Duel, forced Dumbledore out of Hogwarts, and the war ended.''

'' _ Stalin  _ knew about Grindelwald?'' Jones questions. ''He's a muggle.''

''The Statute of Secrecy was greatly shaken during both World Wars. Everyone knew about everyone. This led into a Post War problem that still hasn't been persecuted. The killing curse is unforgivable because it is easy to cast. Much easier than any mind altering spell that requires concentrations. Why not kill muggles to preserve the magical world if you aren't certain you can obliviate them? Nuremberg trials were most certainly a muggle phenomenon that the magical world glossed over because of our low population and a fear of going extinct in two-three generations.''

Jones gulps down a ball of anxiety coiling in her throat and expanding.

''Grindelwald's war for a wholly magical world left the magical population in terrible shape that still mends.'' Voldemort says and pushes himself to his feet. Jones stands up and they leave the classroom to opt for the Great Hall. ''He wanted death and enslavement for muggles, subjugation of muggleborns or a second-class citizenship, and nationalist driven paradise for the rest that fell in line with his specific demands.''

They walk through the empty corridors. All of the children are already seated when they enter the Great Hall. Everyone is engrossed in their food to take interest in two professors moving towards their seats. Just before they take their seats, Voldemort leans closer to Jones and whispers: ''I have no such dangerous ambitions and fascist aspirations, Miss Jones. If you do not believe my word, which I do not fault you for, allow me to assure you that the MUE would never allow us to simply exterminate muggleborns and squibs and the rest of unfortunate, magical ilk.''

Jones purses her lips only to tell him firmly: ''Your approach is subtler, simply. The MUE isn't saintly and knows that as long as you don't threaten to expand your forces on a global scale…'' his gaze doesn't leave her and the professors are beginning to watch them. Jones takes a shuddering breath: ''An island is an island worth monitoring, but not interfering with.''

Voldemort smiles at her and moves his hand fluidly to caress her cheek in a patronising way one might a child that's finally done something cute. ''That's why your cooperation is important, Miss Jones.'' Then his gaze darkens and his magic builds in an uncomfortable manner for all around him. ''If I tell you to do something, as benign as teaching material that you don't one hundred percent agree with - you do it without question. Next time you think it's hard to say a few bad things about your parents and your family, think about this conversation.''

Jones shakes as she takes her seat. Her stomach is full of an extinguished fire. Selwyn gives her an odd look and asks after her health because the muggleborn doesn't go to eat anything.

''Eat some potatoes.'' Selwyn scoops some on Jones's plate. ''Don't go having crisis. I just spent a whole day teaching muggleborn children that Halloween is not Samhain. I should be having those."

Jones cracks a small smile. "Halloween is better."

Selwyn rolls her eyes.

Voldemort opens his robe and fishes out of an inside pocket a vial full of potion to drink before he eats. Nobody says anything to the brief, miniscule twitch of revulsion his face contorts to when he finishes drinking it. Without a word he gets some schnitzel and potatoes on his plate and eats.

''Why did you assign detention to Miss Shacklebolt?'' Minerva McGonagall asks him. Voldemort finishes chewing his bite and once he's wiped his mouth with a napkin answers.

''She is disruptive in class.'' Voldemort gives as explanation and wants to be challenged for a change. He hates how everyone tiptoes around him. It comes as refreshing to see the children ask questions and be forward. Shacklebolt may even become a resource in the future if she hops off of her high horse of teenage rebellion.

''A week of detention is not appropriate punishment for a first offence.'' Minerva informs. Pomona Sprout backs her up, as do some more professors.

Voldemort defends himself by telling her: ''I do not believe in multiple offences. This will either teach her to behave properly in a classroom, or in case that it doesn't I'll escalate in a manner she will regret.''

Minerva McGonagall levels a weary, wary pair of cat eyes and reminds him that professors have no power to maim students. ''Your lot hasn't managed to legalize unforgivables just yet.''

''I meant expulsion, but I do love where your mind goes to, Headmistress.'' Voldemort playfully jabs and finds that without Minerva to challenge him his tenure would be very boring.

''Being an educator,'' Minerva McGonagall narrows those imposing eyes and hisses like a cat instead of how his words are sometimes tainted by sibilant undertones, ''means you must have patience. If we expelled students left-right for small infractions there would be no one left to teach. I am certain the mighty Lord Voldemort,'' his name is both mocked and said with neutral respect, ''can find a way to handle a single student with one detention.''

In summary: no week long detention.

In summary: the Headmistress enacts her rule as his superior.

Lord Voldemort has fought his way to the top of Pureblood aristocracy, has fought his way through the orphanage hierarchy until they all cowered in his presence, has fought in a war and won it, has done too many things to allow Minerva McGonagall to undermine him.

Except, he knows when to yield in order to yield more interesting results.

''Fair enough. I am new at all of this and you have been teaching for a decade. I concede your point. One detention it is."

There are small gasps and interested mutterings from the other side of the long table where Pomona Sprout is.

Minerva only nods but even from where he sits he can feel her heart beat fast and hard. He is her Boggart after all.


	7. Chapter 7

The detention is a mistake.

Lord Voldemort looks at his watch like a hawk and waits for Shacklebolt to come in. The trophy room of Hogwarts is full of dusty trophies and plaques that have all been preserved by spells to last and not have any long-lasting damage befall them. It's a giant room with a desk for the teacher to sit at and oversee student detentions.

Just when Voldemort starts to think that his student will be late the witch skitters into the trophy room with a lopsided grin that slides off when she finds him.

She waves at someone outside and from this angle Voldemort can't see who walked her. Not that it matters. The most important thing right now is that Miss Shacklebolt has arrived on time.

''What do you want me to do?''

''Clean the trophies.''

Shacklebolt nods and takes out her wand, but his voice cuts through the air in time to stop her: ''By hand, Miss Shacklebolt.''

Grudgingly Shacklebolt hands him her wand and starts by opening a shelf of trophies. There's cleaning material the new caretaker of Hogwarts has left out. He's a wizard that can clean more surface with magic in quicker strides. Arthur Vergil, decent halfblood. It's more efficient this way, the Board told both Minerva and Filch.

Hagrid remains in his shack and tends to the grounds because this is a decision that Minerva McGonagall has fought tooth and nail to keep. Filch's managed to get a job in Hogsmeade in Hogshead as a waiter or bartender, but Hagrid - being half-creature, hasn't any humane options for employment. Voldemort doesn't mind him, he just wishes his room doesn't look out to his dingy shack.

''What you did back there should be penalized. I told the Headmistress.'' Shacklebolt whispers and doesn't look at him, finding strength in a lack of eye contact. Her hands scrub at a Quidditch trophy from 1825.

Voldemort sits at his desk and writes correspondence with Abraxas Malfoy. There are many problems. Bellatrix has taken charge of the department of magical law enforcement and is managing any protests that arise from civilians playing at protestor. A few hexes and a night in Azkaban sober them up.

The dementors are agreeable. This is imperative to achieve. Without their acquiescence they can't utilise Azkaban to its full potential. It will remain as a prison, but it doesn't hurt to make it into a re-educational facility. Nobody, however, wants to work there and re-educate the enemy while dementors loom about. Voldemort writes Abraxas to put this on-hold for another month, but that he should go about finding people.

Another point that keeps constantly being brought up is the muggleborn situation. That, also, keeps being postponed. Nobody knows what to do with them, yet. They'll figure it out. Narcissa is preparing her speech for her wizengamot candidateship. Abraxas asks him if he wants to be mugwump and Voldemort writes no. Underlines it twice.

Shacklebolt steams in silence, but her thoughts are vocal and projecting: This is unfair. This is so, so unfair. Fascist, racist prick. Fuck him.

Voldemort ignores this because he can't tell her off for her thoughts. Instead he dips his quill in ink and resumes writing. There's a lot of letters to go through. Apparently, there's a lot more work involved than just rounding up the Order and shooting them dead. _ ''Obviously,'' _he hisses in parseltongue.

Shacklebolt raises her head from the trophies she's cleaning to blink suspiciously at him. Once the sound doesn't repeat she ducks back down to clean. Keeping her anger to herself for a change.

Abraxas writes, also, about a new generation of Death Eaters. The Dark Mark is a symbol of their belief; it should spread. Voldemort writes that it's a symbol of their ascension to power and that he's done with it. Those who have been marked are veterans and should wear them like war decoration. He doesn't write that it takes too much magic to form one, let alone a whole generation's worth.

Today is exhausting enough and he hasn't done anything magically taxing, at all. He looks up from his papers to check up on Shacklebolt. ''Don't forget to clean the glass casings, too.'' Shacklebolt turns around and has a look about her that is positively murderous, but she schools it into neutrality and huffs out an affirmative answer, even tacks on a sir for good measure. Someone has told her to pretend. He can already tell. Without giving it too much thought Voldemort dips his quill in ink again and jumps right back into his work.

There's mentioning of a statue being built in his honour and a speech held in the Ministry. People want to _ see _Lord Voldemort. Abraxas writes that since May he hasn't made a single appearance.

Voldemort understands that on a fundamental level he cannot hide out in Hogwarts forever, but the thought of leaving sends a jolt of trepidation and nausea through him. He stops writing when his body tenses and his magic lashes out at the possibility of him leaving Hogwarts' protective magic that calms his soul in a way he hasn't felt in ages. While he's here he can heal. Should he jeopardize this?

Shacklebolt has finished the trophies and has moved on to the plaques. She takes one, sneezes at the dust, and waits to compose herself before cleaning. ''Profe-acho-ssor,''

Professor Voldemort looks at her and waits until she stops sneezing. Serves her right. He relishes in her sneezes as petty as that may sound. Him being an adult forces some semblance of responsibility and maturity onto him that stops him from actually telling the girl he's happy she's miserably sneezing.

''Yes, Miss Shacklebolt?''

''I'm a-a-acho-llergic to dust, can I continue tomorrow? You said my detention is supposed to-achoo last a week.''

''Oh,'' he says with a very pleased glint in his horcrux induced red eyes, ''it's been reduced to one night. Headmistress has told me that a week long detention is not something that's done for a first offence.'' Voldemort smiles and wonders how things work out just in the perfect way.

Shacklebolt sneezes into her sleeve and her eyes are full of tears.

''Will this last until everything is clean?'' she looks at him like he's mad if he says yes because the room is at least twice as large as some classrooms and even more cluttered.

''No,'' Voldemort shakes his head and tells the girl to finish the case she's started now and that he'll escort her to the Hufflepuff dorm.

A spark of gratefulness lights in her eyes for a second. Shacklebolt turns away and through sneezes and coughs tries to finish her detention.

Voldemort writes one last letter to send via House Elf. Dobby's a very agreeable elf. Not that elves are allowed to be disagreeable, mind. In this letter he tells Abraxas that he'll meet with him tomorrow morning regarding that statue. Then he adds that Bellatrix deserves one, too. It never ceases to surprise him how much Abraxas clings to the old ways. In his letter he leaves no room to be talked around to.

''All right,'' the professor says to his student that's staring intently at a plaque in her hand and an attached, moving photograph, ''you're done, Miss Shacklebolt.''

Her eyes are intensely boring into the photograph. He moves towards her to see what's gotten her so animated that she's sitting in a dust mine willingly.

Peering from over her shoulders Lord Voldemort feels, for the first time in months, an attack. The ice, as if sensing discontent with seeing a reminder of his old life, thunders and freezes and burns him into place.

Awarded to Tom Marvolo Riddle

He forces himself to breathe steadily. It is unprofessional for an educator to fall apart in front of a student.

For Special Services to Hogwarts

The Photograph attached has Dippet shaking hands with him - no, not him - Tom Riddle is a dead, dead boy whose only place is in the recesses of his mind. This is an aberration. Looking into the camera with copper eyes (the crimson tinge doesn't begin until he kills to make the ring), and smiling a very dissimilar smile to his now. This is the smile of an orphan child that flinches at the word mudblood and keeps learning how not to. The mudblood of Slytherin, they called Tom Riddle. The Heir of Slytherin, they called Lord Voldemort.

''Is this you?''

''No.'' he curses himself for saying it so quickly. Shacklebolt raises her brows and puts the plaque back before closing the casing.

''You look like you're related, then.''

''Everyone is related to everyone on this forsaken island.'' Voldemort sneers and gestures Shacklebolt to leave.

They exit together, but a tall Ravenclaw grabs hold of Shacklebolt. He has a dazzling smile as he winks at the amused, dusty girl. Voldemort spots his prefect's badge and decides to ask who he is, but the boy seems to have the same idea.

His hand surges for Voldemort's and they're shaking hands long before Voldemort even thinks about doing that. ''Gilderoy Lockhart, my gracious lord!'' his voice booms. ''You require no introduction, obviously!'' His every sentence ends with an exclamation point. ''Ha ha! I am unimaginably honoured to be in your mere presence! I await our next class!''

''Yes, likewise.'' Voldemort pulls his hand from the other's sweaty, teenage hand.

Shacklebolt separates them and goes towards the Hufflepuff common room with the Ravenclaw prefect on his arm.

Prefect?

That _ thing's _a prefect?

This interaction manages to hurl him into even more chaotic disarray. He goes straight to his quarters to unwind and send these letters. Dobby doesn't ask any questions, just nods and leaves. Voldemort changes into his sleeping robes and decides to open the window finally and let some air in. It's stuffy. It's hot and humid in a way that Scotland should not allow.

Opening it is a mistake, also. But one he doesn't hate himself for making.

Another reminder of Tom Riddle sits straight across from him. A good fifty metres away, which is fifty metres too close.

Hagrid and some slobbering dog are outside and chatting. Ever since 1981 only the teaching staff may eat in the Great Hall; the help eat in a side-room. Only because of this Voldemort has managed to avoid this Half Giant monster.

Voldemort looks down from the window and sees bricks and stone. He might as well sit out on the roof. It's too claustrophobic inside. It's too early to sleep. It's too many 'too' things to handle all at once. He crawls out of the room and moves to sit on the roof like a good example. Luckily no child is awake and outside of Hogwarts at this hour to see the Defence professor practising being an impulsive idiot. Not that he can die if he starts falling; he doesn't need a broom to fly.

The wind breezes. It's calming

Thoughts trickle through his mind. All about Tom Riddle.

The leaves sing. Voldemort tries to breathe.

Owls hoot. Mrs. Cole's hooting snarl comes to the forefront of his mind.

The stars illuminate. A room in the orphanage Mrs. Cole puts the difficult children in as punishment doesn't have any source of light. It's hot during summer. The window is boarded up and too tall to reach.

A dog barks. Voldemort shudders at the onslaught of the wind, but doesn't move from his spot. Let him freeze over. He breathes and breathes and breathes and sits there for a while.

It's so strange to start from the bottom of Hogwarts, below the Lake even. Then suddenly he's ascended to this position of authority and faculty. It's unbelievable.

When Hagrid and his eyes meet Voldemort's hand moves as if autonomous and distanced from the rest of him He doesn't know why he waves. Probably because he's never hated the creature. Hagrid was just the best option he had to avoid being found out and carted off to Azkaban.

Hagrid stands up and goes into his shack.

Voldemort laughs and marks the first day of teaching as over.


	8. Chapter 8

Voldemort wakes up on the uncomfortable, brick roof of Hogwarts. His shoulders are wedged between cramps, his neck cracks when he moves it, and his fingers are slightly frosted. When he rises he spots Hagrid drinking tea out on his porch with his dog.

Carefully, he jumps down from the roof and flies down, easing his fall until his feet connect with the ground. He's wearing shoes because he isn't an idiot to venture out into the roof barefoot. He is, however, sleep deprived enough to sleep on it in Scotland in chilly september.

''Good morning,'' he mumbles to Hagrid and goes towards where the Hogwarts grounds end so he can apparate to Malfoy Manor and get cleaned up for that bloody statue. Looking at his watch he lets out a mirthless breath. It's five in the morning.

Hagrid pretends he hasn't heard him.

The snake from summer hisses at him to stop so she can catch up with him from the treeline. Voldemort does if only to tell it that he'll bring it some mice after.

'' _ I am mad at you.'' _

'' _ There are children everywhere. I don't trust snakes not to attack when threatened by idiots. It's better for you back with your family. I'll pick you back up during the winter holidays.'' _

'' _ I am even more mad at you now because that makes sense.'' _

Voldemort's shoulders shake as he hisses out laughter in parseltongue and waves the snake goodbye. Snakes have always been a source of humour for him.

'' _ It's cold.'' _

Voldemort takes out his wand and casts a warming charm on it.

'' _ Useful Speaker.''  _ the snake calls him and slithers back into the forest.

Having finished that, Voldemort jumps into an easy flight towards the border where he'll disapparate. It takes him three minutes to accomplish everything.

Malfoy Manor is a rather ostentatious blend of many different styles. Yet with great care it retains a certain sense of tastefulness that all pureblood homes have. The second he's spotted people start bowing and shaking hands with him and asking him questions.

Abraxas Malfoy emerges from a corner room, trailed by five peacocks and peahen he's holding in his arm. ''My lord!'' merrily he exclaims only for it to turn sour at the state of him. ''Have you been attacked?!''

Voldemort's arrived in his sleeping robes that are mussed up by his sleeping on the roof. He looks absolutely run-over and exhausted. Eyebags are under his red eyes which just make him look like a poor vampire that can't afford to feed himself. To add to that his hair is uncombed.

''Yes, the children have staged a sneak attack on me.'' Voldemort jokes.

It flies over Abraxas' well groomed head. ''Merlin! Give me their names I'll have Lucius expel them.''

''Abraxas, I was joking.'' Voldemort hisses and Bellatrix's laugh sounds from the room where Malfoy has come out of. ''Bella?'' he calls out to her and goes past Abraxas to greet his General whom he hasn't seen since December the previous year.

She stands in a pose, her marked wand arm outstretched to the sky. That hand has her wand raised in victory. Her other hand is on her hip because there's no other place for it that doesn't look awkward. Bella has a very confident grin.

A man is measuring her and taking moving photographs. Voldemort doesn't know his name and doesn't care to find out. It's refreshing that the man doesn't drop to his knees to bow to him, instead is focused on his work.

''General Black,'' the wizard speaks, ''What's the feel you want for the statue?''

''Feel?'' Voldemort wonders. Bella ponders. The man waits.

''I want it to be pretty obvious that we've won.'' Bella speaks easily. ''I'm happy and confident that we can build our new world together. Mine's a symbol of what is to come - prosperity and victory!''

The man nods and writes down some things on a parchment and snaps one last photograph of Bellatrix.

''Do the statues move?'' Voldemort asks.

''Yes.'' the man answers him. ''They do. You're up next, my lord.''

Hearing that she's finished, Bella drops her hand and hisses in pain from exertion. ''He's bloody kept me in that position for two hours.''

Abraxas comes back into the room and speaks with the artist. ''Put an emphasis on her mark. Use different marble of enchant it to glow. It's the mark we need for that statue.''

''I'd say it's the General we need. The mark didn't cast the killing curse on Dumbledore.'' Voldemort defends Bellatrix and she smiles at him fondly and thanks her lord.

''He's been insufferable all week.'' Bella whispers and nods in Abraxas Malfoy's direction. The peacocks are still around him, but he's left the peahen on a desk to lord over the male peafowls.

Abraxas gives them both an indulgent smile that's just there to pacify, not actually listen. Tom Riddle remembers it well. Lord Voldemort won't allow it. ''Abraxas, a  _ word _ .''

Lord Malfoy nods. The two exit the room. Abraxas' hands adjust his hair. ''You need to look good for this. Why did you start letting your hair grow now, my lord? It doesn't suit you. This is that transitional period where you look like shite whatever you do with it.'' he takes out his willow wand and points it at his hair to shorten it to its neat style everyone knows him by. ''Grow it out later.''

Voldemort allows this. He doesn't care for his hair. His form twitches at the hurried attack from all sides. The man is taking photographs of him. Bella is asking him questions. The peacocks are cawing at the desk bound peahen. Some witches and wizards are mumbling amongst each other in a different room. It's too much. He breathes deeply, in-and-out. Yet because everyone is too busy doing their own thing only Bellatrix seems to notice how his hands curl into tight fists. The ice slithers and slides through him. Without Hogwarts everything is ten times more painful.

''Abraxas,'' he begins to tell him to give him some space but is trampled by Abraxas' insistent clucking of the tongue.

''I'll find you a robe. This sleeping robe is abhorrent. You can amuse the masses with your bold fashion statements after the statue is erected and you hold your speech. Everything should be finished by November second. It's our one year anniversary then, my lord. The regime's a year old. How quaint.''

''Malfoy,'' Voldemort shakes when even now he isn't being listened to. The man's surface thoughts are about a million things surging through, cycling and repeating and muddling his sharp wit.

Abraxas leaves mid conversation to get him an opal robe. Voldemort, out of exhaustion, sits down on the sofa next to Bella.

The man takes a photograph of his face to see how it moves and what its structure is like.

Bellatrix places a hand on his shoulder to ground him. ''Francois,'' she tells the artist, ''go away for a bit. Take that coffee break you've been demanding since last night.''

Francois nods and scuttles away. Voldemort looks at Bellatrix and breathes out a shaky thank you.

''My lord,'' Bella kindly inquires and if it were anyone but her Voldemort would have killed them on the spot for impudence, ''are you still sick?''

''Why?''

''You look like you've escaped from the Hospital wing.'' She gestures his robe and grins.

Voldemort shakes his head and sighs deeply, grateful for the space. ''Hogwarts helps. It's ancestral magic.'' Bella nods, understanding.

''My aunt Walburga's asked for an audience many times.''

''I have nothing to say to her.''

''That's what I told her. Yet she seems insistent that you know what happened to Regulus Black, her youngest.''

''He died.'' Voldemort tells her. ''You can tell her that. No further details are allowed to be disclosed. Congratulate her on giving birth to two traitors.''

Bella nods, but her surface thoughts are obviously cracked at finding out that the younger Black was a traitor, too. ''I'll relay this to her.''

''How is your sister,'' Voldemort inquires to be polite and to speak because his head is killing him and instead of food his stomach fills up with ice that won't melt into water. ''The middle one.''

''I have no middle sister. It is only Narcissa and I.'' Bellatrix sneers and it is the first time she's truly shown hatred for family. Blacks are raised to keep an eye on their own.

''It'll do everyone well if you don't show such animosity for her, Bella. Andromeda is a Black, first, then a blood traitor.''

''She's a Tonks.'' Bella sneers. ''She's got a magical child.''

''How wonderful.'' Voldemort says and tries to push Bella towards seeing what he means her to. ''It would be a shame for that child not to grow up surrounded by proper, pureblood influence.''

Bellatrix deadpans. ''My lord, with all due respect, you have no family. You do not know of the shame she has caused us. It is incomprehensible to you.''

''Bella,'' Voldemort whispers, strains his voice that has frozen over and turned raspy, ''I'm not asking you to cultivate this relationship, I'm  _ telling  _ you. Think of it as a political mission.''

''I feel like all we're doing now is politics.'' Bellatrix puts into words that which Voldemort hasn't been able to. Yes, politics is merciless. He remembers his inexperience with it. He recalls his experience and his want for battle. Battle and strategy he understands. Bella feels the same, which comes as a blessing that proves he isn't alone.

''Can you sleep?'' Voldemort asks her in a bout of vulnerability he hates exhibiting.

''No.'' Bella answers him and points to her eye-ringlessness. ''Make up.''

''Ah.''

Abraxas returns and brings people. All who work for the artist. Makeup spells are applied on him. People are telling him how honoured they are to have met him.

''Opal for our bright new future.'' Lord Malfoy throws the robe at Voldemort who catches it. ''Black is to hide the blood and grime and soot of fiendfyre. No, what you need is a change in wardrobe.''

''It's gay.'' Bella points to the opal robe.

''Well, we're all gay, Bellatrix. We've won!'' Voldemort detests that phrase. It hammers into his skull each time he hears it and the migraine doesn't relent.

''She means queer, Abraxas.'' he rubs his temples and struggles for breath.

''Oh for Salazar's sake.'' Abraxas grabs the robe and goes to find a more masculine one because goodness forbid that tidbit of information resurface into the masses. ''For the record, everybody already thinks you're queer, they're just too terrified of saying it.''

Voldemort lifts his gaze and sees that he isn't lying. Well. That's just  _ peachy _ .

The makeup artist is adding more blush to his pale face. She just won't stop.

''Excuse me,'' Voldemort speaks and the girl startles, ''do I look  _ dead _ ?''

Bellatrix laughs her high pitched laugh that sends chills down the photographer's spine, he can tell. The girl shakes her head and says that he looks good. Just needs a tad more touching up. Another girl, this one taller, is putting product in his hair to make it perfect. His scalp itches from the chemicals.

''Did they put this on you?'' Voldemort asks Bella who is a kindred spirit to him now. She nods.

''Took them three hours.''

Voldemort hisses in parseltongue:  _ ''Fucking perfect.'' _

The makeup girl messes up the makeup she's adding on his eyes to have the red pop out. She starts over.

Abraxas returns with a deep purple robe with silver snakes on the side of his sleeves coiling. ''Purple is regal. It's a lesbian colour, but it's regal.'' Lord Malfoy says and pulls Voldemort to his feet to usher him into a side-room to change.

Voldemort shuts the room and aims his wand at Abraxas now that he has him by himself. ''Abraxas,  _ listen  _ to me.''

''My lord, put the robe on there's a lot to be done today. I've arranged a meeting with the Daily Prophet, also. They've been trying to get an interview for ages and I've always denied them. It'll do the people good to figure out you EXIST. People want to see that you're alive, that you aren't a figment of their trauma induced imagination!''

He casts a silencing spell on the blond, but he deflects it with his own wand.

''What?'' Abraxas shouts at him finally, giving him the much needed attention. ''What do you have to say to me now? Am I not doing a satisfactory job, my lord?'' Malfoy hastens his light step so that they're inches apart. Voldemort cranes his neck to look up at Abraxas who's always been taller than most in their year - except for lanky Thoros Nott whom everyone still thinks has some giant blood in him. ''What's wrong with you?''

Voldemort pushes him away and the painfully loyal Malfoy obliges, the height difference lessens. He's reminded of Tom Riddle, the shortest, skinniest boy in their year and the one after it. He's reminded of Tom Riddle and now that there isn't war to take his mind off of things or his hatred for Dumbledore to keep him occupied he's finally come face to face with his past. There isn't anything to throw up but dinner from last night, but just to be safe Voldemort clasps a hand over his mouth and grabs hold of Abraxas in a very weak way that does not befit  _ Lord Voldemort. _

''Have you taken your potions?'' Abraxas asks him and holds him until his stomach becomes more agreeable. Voldemort shakes his head no and breathes heavily through his nose, angry and pathetic and repugnant. Is this what his life's come to? That he's incapable of leaving Hogwarts without getting sick?

After a few long moments have passed, Voldemort rises to his full height and doesn't feel an onset of nausea. This entire farce of his life is deplorable. ''I'll do the interview later. Give me a week. Today I'll finish this statue nonsense. You're doing a good job. Just… keep people away from me.'' quieter, so quieter than he's ever spoken, ''They're loud, Abraxas.''

''And children aren't?'' His right hand man snorts.

''Hogwarts helps.''

Abraxas' expression softens. ''Don't depend on it.''

Voldemort's eyes are hazy when he says this next part, his head hurts, and the ice (that no Healer can see)  _ spreads _ . ''I'll try not, my dear, dear Goebbels''

''Pf, I would rather be Minister of Propaganda any day than what you're making me do.''

Voldemort smiles at him. ''Find help. Bella will help you.''

''Bellatrix is…'' Abraxas makes a flimsy gesture with his hand that says nothing and everything at once. It's such a Slytherin gesture. Gryffindors use words bluntly. Hufflepuffs hide their harsh words with kind compliments to follow. Ravenclaws follow up with facts and explanations. Slytherins simply gesture because to waste words is shameful. They are a House of context and subtext.

''A woman.'' Voldemort has no time for Slytherin games. ''She's a woman, Abraxas.''

''Well, yes. That isn't what I meant. She's -''

''I remember your sabotaging her in the seventies. In a way, it is one of the reasons why I was so quick to mark her as mine - just to shut you up.''

''Cygnus has asked me to dissuade her from joining up in a gentleman's club - and then an army! It was no place for a woman. The purebloods were angry with you for radicalizing their daughters and wives.'' Abraxas laughs at it now. It's such a long time ago.

Voldemort remembers a piece of propaganda material against him that had a very handsome picture of him and dozens of women all clinging onto his arms.

Dark Arts Promote Unladylike Thoughts!

Bella still has the poster somewhere, he's sure because the woman closest to him looked oddly like she did at 19.

''Bella doesn't deserve your stubbornness, Abraxas. She's done more than you have in this war.''

''Who funded you?'' Abraxas snarls, angry. ''I gave you my only son to brand! I gave you my Manor as a base of operation - and you, you dare!''

Voldemort twitches. ''I dare, yes.'' The haze clears up and he grips his yew wand. ''Work together.''

Abraxas regards Voldemort and there isn't any tug or prod of legilimency. Yet the other's silver eyes are very strong. ''You really  _ don't  _ want to lead.''

''I'm sick, Abraxas.'' Voldemort coughs then on purpose. ''This is no state a leader should be.''

''So what, halfblood boy, you're leaving the world you wished to change and lead into conservative, pureblood hands? Congratulations on not changing anything. Aren't you afraid we'll keep the power among those pure of blood only? How come you aren't afraid I'll simply slide you out of the lobby of power, mhh?''

''Abraxas,'' Voldemort says with the assuredness of death, ''you won't. Now stop threatening me and fix my appearance so I can get this over with and go back to school to teach. I've fifth years first thing after lunch.''

Put off by his lord's words, Abraxas huffs and casts spells to right the man's robe and seal his makeup. ''You look positively elated.'' he says to a very exhausted Voldemort.

Voldemort forces a false smile. ''Why, thank you, Lord Malfoy.''

''Your Death Eaters don't even call me that. I'm just Malfoy to them. Every meeting they ask after you.''

This makes him feel better, more grounded in his place in the world. ''What do you tell them?''

''That you're teaching. Thoros is the only one that remembers your awe whenever we would have Defence with Merrythought. People hope you'll grow out of this phase. Thoros and I know that you're happy.'' Then the proud lord mumbles a skittish sentence, ''You deserve it.''

''Mh?'' Voldemort prompts. ''I didn't quite hear that, Abraxas.''

''You deserve happiness, Tom.'' It's the matter of fact tone that startles him. Not the name he loathes, but the words and the meaning behind them. He curls slightly in on himself and nods faintly, silently.

Abraxas opens the door and merrily says, for the people outside more than himself: ''Our lord's ready!''

The rest of the morning passes in a blur for Voldemort. Francois does his thing. Abraxas tells him how to pose to appear very dominant and like a leader. Bellatrix is there for him to exchange glances with. She laughs. It's a very beautiful thing, to hear a woman laugh when he isn't trying to be charming and is just being himself.

Bellatrix has always liked him, this much is obvious, but it's only now that he gets to know her. They have an interim around eleven when Voldemort looks just about to keel over if he doesn't eat something. Bella accompanies him to the dining room of Malfoy Manor. They charm it so only Abraxas can walk into it.

''I always tried to postpone my wedding. I was to wed Rodolphus when I turned twenty. But a wedding during a war is bad luck so my parents waited,'' she smiles, ''and waited,'' laughs, ''and waited!''

Voldemort is drinking scalding soup. The ice thaws, just slightly. Or maybe it doesn't and he's trying to fool himself.

Bellatrix gives him a calculative look. Her resemblance to Walburga Black only ends with their appearance. Walburga Black screams FILTH and MUDBLOOD and RIDDLE and Bella has never wanted to.

It's an open secret that he's a halfblood. It's just a thing now. Blood will out and his is that of a Slytherin.

''I do love you.'' Bellatrix admits and it takes immense bravery to admit one's feelings to a party that will never be able to reciprocate them. ''I know you don't love me, but I still love you.''

''Find someone else, Bella. I told you this.''

''You did.'' Bellatrix takes a tart from the table to gnaw on. ''I will, I promise.''

''How did Cygnus handle you rejecting Lestrange?''

Bellatrix's lips curl in a pleased, cruel grin. ''Oh! He was furious with me. We duelled. Mummy kept telling us not to, but we continued. He cast like he was mad, perhaps he was. All Blacks are mad. There were a lot of horrible words said that night. I tried to explain to him, but he believes that we still have a King and that women don't get to vote and all sorts of things in that manner.'' Bella closes her eyes and says. ''He cast a cruciatus at me. Yelled it. Meant it. Mummy pushed me out of the way and it hit her square in the chest.''

Voldemort apologizes. It is his fault for inspiring Bellatrix.

She dismisses him. "It's how we argue. Wicked Aunt Burga knows how to really pack a punch with her wand. Sirius left because he was a coward. Sometimes it's smart to be a coward. I cast a knockback jinx at father. It stopped the cruciatus and left him concussed. I rent a flat in Diagon Alley now. It's cleaner and closer to the Ministry. Am Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Bella shimmies in a very proud way in her seat. Raises and lowers her brows even. He almost chokes on his soup. Almost.

''Why is Regulus a traitor?'' Bellatrix asks and her voice is thin. It's not as voluminous as it usually is when she speaks about all topics. It's thin and breakable. ''What did he do?''

''You care for him.'' Voldemort states.

''We  _ all  _ cared for the baby king.'' Bella explains and asks again. ''What did he do?''

''In 1981, during Yule while you were in Malfoy Manor keeping me company I had sent Abraxas to a very personal space to retrieve something from my mother. It was missing. Investigating further, Abraxas pieced together that it was Regulus' doing. Though, by that point the young Black was already dead.''

Bella mulls this over and decides with a shaky exhale that he's made his choices and she's made hers. It's so cold how pragmatic Bellatrix Black can get. Voldemort remembers the anger coursing through Tom Riddle when he killed his father's family. Bellatrix Black simply nods, calculates, catalogues, and moves forward.

Then he remembers the elf. ''Bella, aside from asking about Regulus, is there anything else that  _ menace  _ of a witch wanted?''

''Sirius released from Azkaban but I told her that that is definitely not happening.''

''It might.'' Voldemort smiles and thinks. He can't have a horcrux missing. It's that damned Black elf's fault, too. ''I want Regulus' elf transferred under Malfoy influence and power.''

Bella looks at him like he's stupid. Voldemort waits expectantly with his hands clasped neatly on his lap. She sighs. ''I think you've finally asked something that can't be asked. He's been in Walburga's family for generations. Kreacher is a Black loyal elf.''

''Then threaten him with freedom and clothes if he won't oblige. I need information from that whelp.''

''What kind?'' His General grins. Any possibility at hurting someone Bella will jump at. ''Surely I can be of assistance.''

Voldemort makes a decision, perhaps he might regret, but not right now. He casts muffliato and many more privacy spells around the two of them so his next words can't be traced. Bella swears on her magic and her mark glows and finally satisfied with the precautions he's taken, Voldemort tells her about horcruxes.

Once Bella swears to find him the locket and sets off immediately, Abraxas enters the warded room as his home's ward trump all others. ''My lord, have you eaten?''

''Just some soup.''

''Good.'' Abraxas plops into a seat next to him and asks Dobby to make him some french named delicacy. ''I sent an owl to McGonagall, by the way. Apparently the groundskeeper told her he saw you sleepwalking or something? It was a very strange experience for the man.''

''I was perfectly awake.''

''Yes, that makes it worse. Apparently you slept on the  _ roof _ ?'' At his silence Abraxas raises his hands in the air. ''You can't do that! What were you thinking?''

''I just fell asleep, Abraxas, I was hardly thinking anything.''

''Take dreamless sleep you irritating man! In a bed! Preferably your bed!''

Voldemort notices how every lilting sentence of Abraxas', also, tends to end on an exclamation point. ''I met a student that reminds me of you. Gilderoy Lockhart is his name.''

Abraxas stops his scolding and blinks. ''Oh? Is he as dashing as me?''

''I am an  _ educator _ , Abraxas, I am not allowed to view my students as anything other than smart and struggling.''

''Snape tells me they're all idiots.''

''Snape has issues.'' Voldemort says in a voice that denies his own issues. ''The only reason why he's alive is because I don't know what to do with him.''

''Kill him.''

''I think teaching is slowly killing him.''

''Then keep him on!''

Voldemort lets out a small chuckle as they have lunch. A child cries. Abraxas rolls his eyes and blames him for this. ''Narcissa is out there playing politician and who's left to mind my grandson? Oui, c'est moi!''

While bouncing Draco Malfoy on his hip, Abraxas tells Voldemort that it's a non-issue if he misses his potions once if he takes them when he goes back to Hogwarts. ''You shouldn't make a habit of this, though.''

''I take too many potions.''

''You don't get to choose this.'' Abraxas tells him. Voldemort scoffs and pushes away his half-eaten plate. Dobby pops in to pick them up and pops out to the kitchen.

Draco asks his grandfather if they can pet the birdies. Abraxas beams at the only family member that actually likes his peafowls. ''Of course, Draco!''

''Come on,'' Abraxas grabs Voldemort's hand and drags him into the garden that's enchanted to be sunny and warm. They sit in a patio while Draco caws at the birds and totters about.

''Gwandpa look!''

Abraxas turns and waves at his grandson, swelling with joy and pride and love.

Draco's hugging a peahen that looks like she wants to both be held by him like this and definitely doesn't.

''Draco, dear boy, come back here. Grandpa's got sweets for you!''

''Do you?'' Voldemort doesn't remember seeing Abraxas take any.

''No, but it's better if he leaves my birds alone for a bit.''

Draco lets go of the peahen and gleefully goes to the elders.

''Sweet!'' Draco outstretches his hand and demands. Abraxas tells him he lied. Draco scrunches up his face like a toddler only can. ''I want sweet!'' Even stomps his small foot against the ground.

''How old is he?''

''Two.''

''Want! Sweet!''

Abraxas giggles at his petulant grandson. He grabs his hand and tells them they're going to go and he can get two sweets.''

Pacified, the tantrum averts. ''Okay.''

Voldemort remembers little Lucius being exactly the same and getting trashed by a very caged Abraxas that's not wanted to have children when Lucius was born. Lucius grew up fearing his father. Draco adores his grandfather.

''You'll spoil this one.'' Voldemort says.

Abraxas doesn't even try to deny it. ''Oh, certainly. He's the future of our family.''

''So was Lucius.''

''Lucius was a little twat that just grew into a bigger one.''

''Who awe you?'' Draco asks Voldemort while sucking on a lollipop. He pets the blond mop and crouches down to his level.

''I'm Voldemort, your grandpa's friend.'' he introduces himself.

''Vol.'' Draco nods and the conversation is over. His small eyes are staring at him still, taking this foreign presence in. He hasn't interacted with him much.

Voldemort straightens back up and gives Abraxas a bemused smile.

''This child is going to be formidable when he grows up.''

Abraxas looks like he could melt at any and all praise for his grandson. It's horrible. Voldemort laughs at him. ''Look at yourself, man. You're worse than new mothers!''

''Wed eyes?'' Draco tugs at Voldemort's purple robe abruptly. ''You vampiwe?''

Voldemort picks up Draco because it seems easier than just constantly looking down and craning his already strained neck. Draco's hands are sticky. Toddlers as a whole are sticky creatures.

''I am not a vampire. My eyes are red because of a magic ritual I did.''

''Oh.'' Draco nods like he understands. Maybe he does. He doesn't know how toddlers work.

''Stay.'' Abraxas tells him. ''Stay a bit longer, my lord.''

Voldemort looks at his watch and remembers that all wizards get watches for their seventeenth birthdays. He glances at the man that's given him this watch and tells him that he's got responsibility elsewhere. Handing over Draco to Abraxas, Voldemort disapparates from the Manor and into Hogsmeade.

There he nearly kills a greying red headed man that crosses into his red horizon.


	9. Chapter 9

Yew points at a fearful old man with raised arms.

''I'm not Albus.'' the man chokes out. ''Name's Aberforth, my lord,'' hastens to tack on that title to further distance himself from his traitorous brother, ''I'm his younger brother. Own the Hogshead. How about a drink, on the house, of course...'' does this Dumbledore think he's drunk and incapable of coherently distinguishing between the two of them? Maybe that's the less humiliating explanation for this. Maybe it's better to take that lie than wonder about the truth and how he lacks ability in knowing when to not take his wand out and shoot.

Peace does not agree with him.

Voldemort lowers the wand and nods to the man. They walk in the same line. Hogshead isn't far.

''What would you like to drink?''

''Butterbeer.''

Aberforth gives him a strange glance at the non-alcoholic drink, but knows better than to question the mighty Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort asks him to keep him company while he drinks, to pour himself whatever he wants. Aberforth pours himself a firewhisky.

''What happened to the wand?''

''Your brother's wand?'' Voldemort guesses.

''That wasn't my brother's wand and it never could be. He was a pacifist after what he'd done to our sister.'' Aberforth huffs like an old man whose each breath might be his dying. ''I remember he hated you. Told me that many times while he taught you. You were Gellert Grindelwald's successor before Grindelwald was even imprisoned.''

''Gellert Grindelwald inspired Hitler to war.'' Voldemort remembers Tom Riddle hiding in bunkers while sirens blare and airplanes drop bombs. Summer, to him, means death. ''I was a  _ child _ . He had  **no ** right. ''

''No. He did not.'' Aberforth tips back his drink and coughs.

Voldemort sips the butterbeer and remembers that anything stronger is not advised as he- looks at his watch - needs to be teaching OWL students about Inferi in an hour.

''I'm sorry, if it means anything to yeh.''

''It doesn't.'' Voldemort cooly says and stands up, forgetting his drink. This is a mistake. Everything is a mistake to him today.

Aberforth doesn't stand to see him out. It is better this way.

Minerva McGonagall stops him on his way towards his classroom. It will make him late. He shall tell her to write him a note just to be spiteful and eccentric. It is just the kind of style of man she likes. He's even somewhat queer, too, to add to that misery which is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

''I was told that your room is inadequate.'' Minerva McGonagall informs him of facts she's been given by a blond wizard.

''My room is fine.'' Voldemort rues the day he ever gave Abraxas Malfoy any power. He rues the day Lucius was ever put on the Board of Governors.

She dodges his attempt at evasiveness and he can tell, he can tell by the way she grips her fir wand (the survivor's wand and isn't that perfect for the only survivor of the Order) and grits her beautiful teeth and narrows her cat eyes and has her words hiss harder than any before, ''It is not. The Board has told me to transfer you. Switch with Snape.'' - he can tell she's afraid of him and he wonders until when will this fear be amusing. When will he grow bored of it? When will he want her punished for it?

''My room is seconds from my classroom.'' Voldemort explains. ''All Defence professors have always been in this wing. Snape's classroom is seconds from his room. It would be stupid to switch, Headmistress.''

''I am just relaying to you what I've been ordered to make a reality.'' Minerva McGonagall tells him. She sees that it's idiotic, as well.

They stare one another down and it's him that looks away first because he values time and he doesn't have the luxury of wasting it anymore. ''My room is fine. If you will excuse me, Headmistress, I have class to be going to.''

Minerva McGonagall allows him and apologizes for keeping him from his duties. She's so proper sometimes. He envies that in her, that skill and diligence to always, under any circumstance, look her best.

Voldemort opens the door to his classroom and finds that half of the class is thinking about leaving because of those infamous academic fifteen minutes.

''Sit down.'' he barks and waves his wand as a warning. They all scramble to take their seats.

One student is late and he takes thirty points from Hufflepuff and allows him to attend class. Doesn't care to find out his name. He uses a chalk spell for his wand and writes INFERI on the blackboard behind him.

''What's the difference between a vampire and a inferi?'' he asks the class.

Nobody raises their hand and Voldemort scowls at them. He sees that this is one of his monologue classes, then. Which is a right shame as he's feeling uncharacteristically pissed off this very moment and could use a distraction.

''Um,'' a hand raises. Ravenclaw girl.

Voldemort asks her to go on. Feeling hopeful.

''Can I go to the bathroom, please?''

That hope is a bottle that is smashed into bits over his own head and then used to tear his ribcage open. And this girl is the one that smashed it.

''No.'' he seethes like he's once seethed cruciatus curses at enemies. The effect isn't similar and he wishes it was.

The lesson continues in this kind of fashion. He dictates. Everyone is scribbling. Nobody is rising their hands in the air out of fear. Nobody is talking because he isn't above sending a stinging hex at them as a warning. Once the class is over everyone picks up their things in record time and runs out of the classroom.

Voldemort calls that lesson a complete failure.

That day he's nicknamed Professor Tyrant by the tardy Hufflepuff boy and it spreads faster than any fiendfyre, than any imaginary ice that feels too real, faster than any rumour.

The rest of his lessons are less intense than the one with the fifth years. The sixth year joint class asks him questions and he answers them patiently. Still doesn't let anyone go to the bloody bathroom. Let them all suffer. He hasn't the time for bodily functions today.

The NEWT class - is the worst class of his day.

Because Gilderoy Lockhart is an Abraxas Malfoy look alike idiot. He doesn't want to become a cliche teacher that when having any personal issues he deals with it by shouting at a student, but this such an infuriating young man that it's wholly acceptable that the better part of the lesson is spent dressing down Gilderoy Lockhart verbally. The boy keeps smiling to make matters worse. Oh, oh he's laughing at him now, is he!

''Thirty points from Ravenclaw.''

Shacklebolt, who is sitting next to the terrified ravenclaw boy, looks at him and doesn't challenge him for a change. Which is good because he doesn't trust himself to know what to do if she does.

That class ends with Gilderoy Lockhart in tears.

Shacklebolt mutters ''Professor Tyrant indeed.''

Though, not even that acts as the culmination of his night. What does sets him in a deep anger that can't be quelled simply by flinging hexes at inanimate objects.

Tantalus Nott looks like he's been scorched badly. While they're eating food and Voldemort is attempting to calm himself down because how dare people even speak to him.

''First year Slytherins did this to me because you taught them the Sol FUCKING Invoca spell, my lord.''

Very little stops him from taking the Sol Invoca spell and casting it on the man as a finishing touch.

''What did you do to them?'' Voldemort asks and eats haggis.

''Gave them detention with you.''

''With me?'' He turns to Minerva McGonagall who is trying to keep her nose out of things. ''Is this allowed?''

''It's your fault they did this. So,  _ yes _ .''

He remembers that snake telling him she's feeling rage because his argument makes sense and he empathizes with that snake very much.

''Fine.'' Voldemort stands up from his dinner and stalks towards the Slytherin table. The first years sit near the front because that's always been the Slytherin hierarchy. The older you are the farther from the teachers you get to sit. He snaps his fingers and gets the attention of Burke, Murphy, and Avery. They look frightened. Murphy is still trying to eat haggis because food is important.

''Get up.''

Burke and Avery jump up.

''Can I finish my food?'' Murphy pleads, thinking that she might be spared.

''Take it with you.'' Voldemort will never deprive any child of sustenance, this he swears to.

Murphy looks at her plate and takes it with her, she supposes. Because she isn't an animal she puts a fork and knife on the plate, too. They leave like that and everyone is muttering about Professor Tyrant.

He'll deal with that later.

They skid in an empty classroom. Murphy sits down at a desk and finishes her meal while Voldemort is hissing and chastising Burke and Avery. ''Have you any idea what your actions could have caused?''

''Death.'' Burke says and has sense enough to realise their stunt could have branded them as murderers. There isn't a juvenile facility for underage witches and wizards. He may tell Abraxas to put that in the back of his mind for when they have the time.

''My lord,'' Avery starts and he doesn't let her speak. He doesn't let anyone but himself speak this fine day. Because he is done with purebloods speaking over him and sending letters behind his back and being absolute nuisances to him.

''Just because you're purebloods,'' he seethes and his crimson eyes gleam like horror and the girls shrink, ''does not give you the right to think you should place yourselves above other people. You aren't omnipotent because of something as stupid as how inbred all of you are!''

Avery flinches at the verbal lash. Burke's taller than the rest and she's trying desperately to make herself smaller.

Halfblood Murphy sits at her little desk and looks at her plate while Lord Voldemort, a known killer, reprimands eleven year old girls.

''Your actions are fit for  _ expulsion _ .''

Avery cries behind her glasses and smudges them up until she can't see upon which point she takes them off to rub them clear with her robe.

''In my time at Hogwarts you'd be  _ caned  _ for something like this. Have you no cunning, have you no ambitions for what comes after Hogwarts? Have you any Slytherin traits! Because I see  **none ** in  ** _any _ ** of you.''

Burke is shaking and looking at the floor.

Once he's finished with them he turns to Murphy and calls her over. Murphy lines up with her classmates and her lip is already quivering. Yet she manages to keep eye contact with him for a full ten seconds. It's enough for him to realise that she's the one that called for the Hogwarts matron to heal Nott. It's enough for him to realise that she's the one that was very much against this but was too afraid of being ostracized by her pureblood and thus more popular classmates.

Voldemort places a hand on her shoulder and tells her that because she's a halfblood she doesn't have to do what purebloods tell her. ''You need to realise that there are some things that are more important than false friendship, especially this kind that isn't even worth it. Your contacts with Miss Burke and Miss Avery don't mean anything if you get expelled.''

Tears well in her eyes and the irish girl nods, screwing them shut as she lets out a little exhale of breath. ''Yes, sir. I understand.'' Her family's not well off, this much he knows, but it isn't poor. Any connection their daughter scores is a boon.

His hand squeezes her shoulder in reassurance. ''Learn from your mistake.''

His crimson gaze levels on the pureblood girls and he seethes at them. ''You're dismissed.''

They don't have to be told twice.

Murphy and he remain.

''Sir,'' the little girl whispers, ''I'm sorry.''

''You can finish your dinner, Miss Murphy and then I'll escort you back to Slytherin.''

''I'm not hungry anymore.'' Murphy whispers. ''The only reason why I took the plate with me is because you scared me.''

''Well,'' Voldemort lets his reply finish there. He scourgifies her face and she tries to muffle her sniffling while he's leading her to the Slytherin dormitory. The wall that demands the password is greeted with parseltongue and opens immediately.

The familiarity strikes him back into his time at Hogwarts. Black leather sofas line the study area. There are small nooks where students can hide in if they don't want to involve themselves with people. They're all next to the windows. He remembers watching the fish swim and the mermaids play. He remembers looking into a calming depth of tens of metres downard. He remembers studying by himself because he knew that any connection he forms would not take because of his blood status.

Murphy skids up to the girl's dorms and thanks him for escorting her. Voldemort waves her away. The common room is empty. Snape has rounded them all up to their rooms. He walks over to a couch and leans into it, allows the cool leather to calm his nerves. The watery shadows lull him. The noises of dripping and the pressure of being underneath water soothes. The air down here is perfect, it isn't rare and thin like atop Ravenclaw tower.

He allows himself a moment of peace before leaving Slytherin in favour of the Ravenclaw wing.

On his way up the last flight of stairs he spots a cat.

''Headmistress?''

The cat doesn't give him any indication of understanding him.

Voldemort feels like an idiot for thinking that any cat he comes by is secretly Minerva McGonagall.

The portrait of Galatea Merrythought doesn't glare because Merrythought doesn't glare, she intimidates with her eyes. Which is a lesson unto itself, she used to say.

''Professor.'' Voldemort whispers and remembers Tom Riddle's joy at all of her lessons.

''You look terrible.''

''I feel worse.''

Merrythought nods and muses. She speaks with an irish accent. Her hair is auburn. She is ageless in this portrait. Voldemort asks her where she's been hiding. At the word she bristles.

''I do not hide,  _ lad _ .'' Merrythought explains. ''I was with Hooch. She's got a little pocket portrait of me. It's adorable.''

''Hooch?''

''Yes. She and I went to school together. Not that this is ANY of your concern, but we're friends. Much alike you and that daft blond.''

''Oh.'' Voldemort says.  _ ''Oh.'' _

Merrythought shrugs and tells him something that he needs to hear. ''You've got a problem with Ravenclaw. All of the portraits are talking amongst each other.''

''I do not. It's the room-''

''Yes, yes. The room in the  _ Ravenclaw  _ wing. The Half-Giant isn't the problem. Though, everyone alive speculates that it is. No, your problem is with Ravenclaw. You've done wrong by it. If you'd done wrong by Gryffindor the ghost would have duelled you. Slytherin's ghost would have killed you. Hufflepuff's ghost would have found a way to make you leave. Ravenclaw's ghost is being patient with you, waiting until you apologize. Ravenclaw's a forgiving lady.''

''You mean the Grey Lady?'' Voldemort tries to make sense of his professor's ramblings.

''I mean  _ Ravenclaw _ . The original. There are magical imprints left in their wings. Salazar Slytherin's magic lingers in the castle as does everyone's. You've done wrong by Ravenclaw. Figure it out, lad. Switching rooms won't stop it.''

''All right.'' Voldemort says and bids his portrait mentor good night. She bids him the same.

The lord enters his room and takes those blasted potions finally. They taste like shite. He feels like even bigger shite. He thinks about taking dreamless sleep, but knows that that forms an addiction and he doesn't want to do that to himself.

The window is open.

Voldemort waves his hand and closes it else he get tempted to sleep on the roof again.

He rises out of bed because this isn't working out. None of this is working out.

Merrythought is gone when he comes out. At least he knows she isn't avoiding him.

Voldemort lists all of the things he's done to the Grey Lady as he sets out to find her. He's lied to Ravenclaw's daughter and manipulated her in order to find out where the diadem is. Ravenclaw's diadem he's tainted with dark magic and then left in Hogwarts as if taunting that entire House. These are the only things he can think of off the top of his head that pertain to Ravenclaw personally.

Until he hears an agonized moan.

And realizes he's killed one of her students.


	10. Chapter 10

Minerva McGonagall cannot sleep. Her hair is in a braid and she only puts a robe over her nightgown. Once she's ready to go for a calming walk around the castle, she rummages through her things and takes out a cloak willed to her. Donning it, she turns invisible.

Hogwarts at night is abnormal. For Minerva Hogwarts has always been associated with children and their laughter and paintings muttering. There is a reason why no one is allowed outside of their dormitories at this hour. It's overwhelming, the silence, the space, the monsters lurking about.

The Headmistress' rooms are a way down from Gryffindor. Albus Dumbledore's portrait doesn't speak to her. She wishes it did. She wishes she knew what to do. She wishes she was still Gryffindor's Head of House.

Administrative duties are boring and her position is wholly titular. Minerva misses teaching.

Strolling towards the Fat Lady Minerva halts in front of her sleeping form. She snores. Behind it are her children, her brave and bold lions who are taking all of these changes in stride. Persephone is making sure they're all surviving, because in this era of discontent and change that's all everyone can hope for. The girl's good at Transfiguration. She isn't great, at it, but she's good enough to teach the curriculum without stumbling. This is all Minerva asks.

Lingering hurts, so Minerva sets forth towards the Ravenclaw wing. The paintings over there are most interesting. Eccentrics throughout the ages line asleep. No one spots her and it's for the best. Stopping by Rowena Ravenclaw's portrait Minerva remembers considering being sorted there as a child, but Gryffindor is where her heart truly belongs. Instead of being in a deep slumber Rowena Ravenclaw eyes a corridor. Her eyes are stark and strong with intention. She moves from her portrait towards it, not caring for waking up the rest of the portraits in her journey.

Minerva follows the Founder.

She sits in a landscape painting and listens. Minerva can move farther, not only limited by walls. Curiosity gets the better of her and that's fine, her animagus is a cat and it's all expected.

The scene is a flooded bathroom. There are two people inside. One she does not wish to name. The other she knows as Myrtle Warren. Minerva remembers the young girl turned ghost turned harsh dead woman.

''Myrtle,'' the man begins. His voice is shaky and weak in the face of Death. Minerva watches, entranced by this side of him she has never been privy to before.

In a way this feels perverted and voyeuristic, to intrude on what feels like an intimate moment.

Myrtle Warren looks at him and from this angle Minerva can see the hatred in her translucent eyes. She can see a spark of life in a lifeless spectre. Ghosts have always terrified her. Minerva doesn't know what she would do if she were turned into a ghost. It's such a thankless existence riddled with unfinished business.

Rowena Ravenclaw is deathly silent as she listens from the landscape of the Forbidden Forest, sitting in front of it on a log, the eagle waits.

''Oh.'' Myrtle Warren's mousy voice cuts like a knife through the tension. ''I was wondering when you'd deign to visit me,  _ Tom Riddle _ .''

There's a sharp intake of breath from the only person of the two that needs to breathe. Minerva watches like a detached party with Rowena Ravenclaw.

''Let's not pretend that this isn't anything more than a courtesy call, Miss Warren.'' Voldemort whispers and his lordliness is evident. He's trying to regain control over a situation where Myrtle Warren is more powerful than him. It is hard to argue with a ghost. When its arguments get to you, you cannot fix the situation by taking our your wand and killing them. They speak above death. This is what makes them worth revering.

''Keep telling yourself that.'' Myrtle nods and flies around him. Voldemort doesn't turn after her, he stays rooted, frozen. It's good. That's good. Minerva watches with bated breath and has an inkling feeling pooling in her stomach that if he turns he'll see right through this invisibility cloak left to her by Albus.

''I don't ask you to believe me, Warren,'' Voldemort says politely. Like a Head Boy - no, Minerva corrects, like a newly instated Prefect that aims to be Head Boy. Minerva knows that there is a history between these two. Hagrid has told her once while she was over for tea. It chills her to know that there is a plaque in this very school she runs that lauds a murderer. Hagrid is innocent and stripped of magic. Myrtle is curious and dead because of it.

''You have come here out of courtesy,  _ fine _ .'' Myrtle bites out the last word, her eyes gleaming ferociously, but she's smiling like a little girl. It's eerie how agelessness works. How it affects others' perception of her. ''Then be courteous. Tell me why you've come here tonight? What forces you to be courteous, who are you lying to now, perfect prefect?''

Minerva sees his adam's apple bob ungracefully. ''I,'' something catches in his throat, words that he needs to think over before letting out into the world for this ghost of his past to scrutinize. ''I would like to help you.''

Her smile falls and her face contorts with disbelief and fury. She flies so they're the same height and flies into him, so they're inches apart. Her hand looks as if it wants to grab and throttle him into agony, but then she remembers that she can't touch him so she spits  _ acid _ . ''I am not a priest to absolve you!''

That's the first time that evening that Minerva catches Voldemort completely off guard. He flinches at the tone and the words.

''You killed me.'' Myrtle simply states. ''I didn't even know until Hagrid told me when you came back. I had no idea. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is not knowing who killed you? No, you don't.'' Her hands go to caress his cheek as she smiles. ''I liked you, you know. Very much. You were handsome. You still are.'' Myrtle lets out an airy moan and flutters her lashes as she giggles. ''The world covets the beautiful.'' the act falls apart. ''I  _ don't _ .''

''I am not asking you to forgive me, but to allow me to help you move on.'' Voldemort says. It's a painful sentence to say. Minerva's eyes widen underneath the cloak. She watches muted figures dancing, she watches his shadow moving - but Myrtle's mousy voice  _ squeaks _ .

'' _ Why?'' _

Voldemort speaks, but Minerva doesn't hear over the quick and sudden influx of water bursting from the pipes and the sinks' faucets. The water floods the lavatory. Stalls slam open and close with even greater force. Water overflows from the toilets, too. The ghost listens patiently, listens to Voldemort's grand explanation. Her face is scrunched up in deep thought. The water rises. The water rises. Minerva's shoes are wet. The corridor is drenched. Myrtle Warren listens.

''No.'' Myrtle Warren says finally once the water stops, once the explanations stops. Minerva hates not hearing it. Hates her curiosity. Hates Rowena Ravenclaw's deep expression of thought.

''Warren,'' Voldemort tries to reason with a ghost.

''NO!'' She booms at him and his back is still turned and Minerva can't see how he reacts to being denied. She knows he is proud, much too proud for his humble roots. ''I won't absolve you. My parents couldn't even come see me! They knew I existed,'' not lived, ghosts don't live, ghosts exist on a plane they shouldn't, ''and they couldn't come and see their only child because of something as hideous as rules and  _ blood _ !'' Muggle parents aren't allowed on Hogwarts grounds under any circumstances. It's always been unfair. It's always been abided.

Voldemort's shoulders are tense.

''I don't expect you to understand.'' Myrtle sneers at him, her lips pulled back and her teeth barred like an animal's before snapping them down on a prey's windpipe. ''I don't expect you to care!''

''Myrtle,'' his voice is calm. His voice is a manipulator's that's losing. Minerva relishes in his fumbling for words, his inability to find them. ''I just want to help you.''

There's a rustle right next to Minerva's ear. She turns to the painting and sees that Rowena Ravenclaw is holding her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders are moving in a way that's completely undignified. She's  _ laughing _ .

''You want to help me now because you think it'll help your circumstances.'' Myrtle states. Voldemort doesn't deny it. He has tired of failing. Perhaps honesty may yield better results.

Then, the ghost thrusts a hand through him and he tenses like he's been shot with a killing curse. It's that same kind of immobility, that same kind of flash of fear right before muteness and realisation overcomes.

But a ghost cannot kill a person simply like that.

Voldemort lets out a breath he's been holding. He's shaking.

Myrtle Warren straightens up with narrowed eyes behind her spectacles. ''You can do  **nothing ** to me anymore, Tom Riddle.'' There are tears in her eyes that spill like water has moments later, She stops to regain her composure. They're looking at each other intensely. Minerva feels salt trickling down her cheeks. She clings onto the cloak and remembers Albus pushing for Tom Riddle's expulsion and not being heard over Hagrid's framing. It's easier to expel a half-creature than a beautiful boy genius with unfortunate background.

''It brings me immense joy,'' Myrtle pushes her hand through his face now and he bites his tongue and any words that may flee in anger and inadequacy, ''to be able to do things to you just by existing. It makes me feel proud, Tom Riddle, to see you in pain. It  **cannot ** bring me  _ back _ , but it brings me  ** _happiness_ ** .'' She giggles in her squeaky voice that grates on ears, but here feels like it's the most powerful sound in creation.

Voldemort wets his lips and says: ''My offer stands.''

''You know exactly what will help me.'' Myrtle smiles at him now. Minerva doesn't know how Myrtle can stomach speaking to her murderer. But it isn't her place to speculate. When Voldemort tells he he has no idea what she's on about, Myrtle clucks her tongue at him in disapproval. ''No wonder you weren't sorted into Ravenclaw.'' when that doesn't rise a reaction out of him, the ghost flies upward and flips in the air. Looking at him from an upside-down position gives her a brand new angle. ''I'm tired of Hogwarts, Tom Riddle. I really am.''

Voldemort nods. He can't fathom such a thing, but he nods.

''I tire of children making fun of me, both when alive and when not.'' Myrtle laughs. It's sad. ''I tire of sleeping above your instrument. I tire!''

''What do you want me to do?''

Myrtle cranes her neck and tilts her head to the side to capture Voldemort in his most attenuated.

''How about a riddle, Riddle?''

Voldemort breathes and Minerva can only hear him acquiesce. She doesn't hear the riddle because she focuses on hissing sounds underneath her feet that sound far too loud to be from a normal snake. It doesn't come from the parselmouth and it scares her. Snakes scare her. Voldemort scares her.

Minerva McGonagall glances to Rowena Ravenclaw and finds that she mouths words. Recognition sparks in her eyes and she crosses from out of the landscape and goes somewhere else, hopping from portrait to portrait, laughter bubbling and never releasing.

Minerva doesn't know whether to follow Ravenclaw or stay and see what will happen next. She opts to going after Ravenclaw because she does not want to be caught by Lord Voldemort. This is a private moment between past ghosts.

They cut through many shortcuts. Minerva hastily follows a painting that's smiling, that's happy, that's passionately thrilled to see what comes next. It is that insatiable craving for knowledge that pushes Ravenclaws all around.

Rowena leads her to the Trophy Room.

Lord Voldemort arrives like a billowing spectre of darkness moments later. Minerva is careful not to be in his path. The hissing comes with him. He hisses. The walls hiss back at him.

He enters the trophy room like a thunderstorm and swings open a casing of plaques. ''A laud of a common foe seals my prison. Its destruction purges us both.'' the first english sentence out of him. Myrtle's riddle. Minerva waits by the sideline, now closeby a small photograph of students dressed in bronze and blue from 1886 where Rowena Ravenclaw sits and watches like an eagle.

The hissing intensifies. Voldemort snarls and grabs hold of a plaque that from this angle means nothing to Minerva. It is dark in the trophy room and abundantly dusty. Hogwarts recognizes him as its own and does nothing. It does nothing as his fingers spark with fiendfyre, a weapon he has used in war to kill hundreds upon hundreds of innocents. It does nothing when his magic casting turns sibilant and even if she wants to stop him from burning down Hogwarts she can't because she doesn't know what he's adding onto it.

The plaque burns and Minerva considers unveiling herself.

Something is in the walls. Minerva clings to the cloak and considers tapping her fir wand against the brick walls to check what. Homenum revelio shows her nothing. It's an animal, then. A magical one from the size of it.

Lord Voldemort's eyes glow in reflection of the fiendfyre dancing in his grip. He has a raw look of concentration. She praises his magical efforts even though her teeth almost begin chattering. She forces herself to remain, to see this through. Because bravery is swallowing down fear and living with it while doing things you don't want to. That is bravery. This is bravery. It begins like a mantra in Minerva's head.

None of the fire spreads or jumps from his fingers. It eats at the award he's holding, it illuminates his face in a light of anguish she has never seen him wear, and it obeys his powerful hold on it.

Dark magic is dark because it has a mind of its own. Light magic is light because it allows the caster greater control over it. There's politics thrown in, too, but in its raw form that is the truest difference. In order to be a dark wizard one must have a clear thought of what they want.

The yew wand is in his pocket. This is done wandlessly. It connects with his magic and spurs the fire up, kindles it. Minerva watches. Rowena scrutinizes.

Something is hitting the walls. It's hitting the wall closest to Voldemort. Minerva has sworn an oath to protect Hogwarts and all its denizens, begrudgingly this includes him. She aims her wand to see what menace many tumble out.

Bricks push forward. Thump. Hit. Bricks push forward. Thump. Hit. Bricks push  **forward** .

Voldemort ignores this. The plaque is gone and turned to ash fed unto the flames borne from his heart. He turns to the brick wall and takes out his wand,  _ hissing _ .

Minerva McGonagall turns back to see where Rowena Ravenclaw is but she can't find her. She's all alone. She's all alone with Lord Voldemort mad and whatever creature is attacking them. The cloak feels like a blanket kittens are wrapped up in right before being thrown into a river.

Her Boggart is talking to a wall. It speaks back. Voldemort aims his white yew wand at the brick wall that's collapsing and hisses a spell that Minerva thinks is a bombarda from the damage caused. The wall is completely collapsed. Hogwarts allows this.

Hogwarts allows this. Ravenclaw allows this. Minerva's silence allows this.

The witch swallows down a scream of horror when she sees what is inside the walls. A snake. No, that isn't a snake. Snakes don't grow that large. Not even when boosted by magic. This is a myth brought back to life. Salazar Slytherin's monsters reunite. Its eyes are closed as it nudges into where Voldemort is hissing, using its hearing so it doesn't kill anyone with its potent sight.

Like a cat, it nudges and nudges and nudges. Voldemort hisses at it to stop. It hisses back. Minerva can finally see because Voldemort's face because he turns around to check if they're alone because his actions have brought a monster into common midst. It's soft. Softer than any she's ever seen on him.

''I'm fine.'' Voldemort says through his hisses, speaking sometimes english sometimes parseltongue. ''I'm not hurt.'' Then when it hisses something specific she can hear him choking up on his words. Hogwarts' magic lingers, wrapped around both its Headmistress and its beloved prodigal son. It feels like a guiding hand for her. Minerva speculates that it feels like a parental hand to the orphan still placating the snake that's followed him all the way from where Myrtle Warren's tomb is. It's a long walk from there to the trophy room, practically two different parts of Hogwarts.

The snake likes him. He hisses and Minerva moves when the hissing is loud enough to mask her footsteps. An unlikely sight greets her. Voldemort is petting its scales and leaning on its head and shuddering with silent sobs as he mutters to it. Half english for the words that snakes don't have and half for parseltongue for the words that english doesn't have. Barely she makes out: ''I didn't mean to worry you.'' ''I'm fine.'' ''I'm not hurt.''

It pushes into him and hisses. Minerva knows this gesture as cats not believing their owners when they've seen them crying. Snakes are so much more similar to cats than she's ever cared to notice. Voldemort's face falls. Crumbles absolutely. His hands cling to the scales. Slowly, without meaning to really, he sinks to his knees and keeps a hand to its body as if it's a lifeline to him. His back is turned to Minerva, but she recognizes crying people when she sees them.

She has seen war and she has seen grief manifested in so many different ways. It is strange to see a monster so human when with a monster to seek comfort from.

Minerva looks at the snake, really takes its unique form into memory. Only its head is out from the walls and nuzzling against Voldemort. Whispering to him calming things and lulling him like a mother would her child. Its eyes are closed. Its eyes are closed because of protection.

She has to get away. Minerva tells herself. Because she doesn't know what to do with this information. The Chamber of Secrets hosts a  **Basilisk** . It's terrifying to think this creature dwells among a school full of children. It's terrifying to think about the mental bond between the Slytherin's heir and the Basilisk. What if this sort of thing happens again, but while there are children around? No, Minerva vows, while she is Headmistress this shall not be allowed. She should kill the snake.

Minerva points her wand at the monster and whispers ''Avada-'' but the snake hisses very loudly.

Voldemort turns and his gaze is just as petrifying as the Basilisk's.

His eyes bore holes through her cloak and meet with hers and Minerva has to remind herself that she's wearing the cloak, that she's invisible, that Lord Voldemort is staring into  _ nothing _ .

She holds her breath, holds her form rigid, and begs all of the gods for him to turn around. Their eye contact lasts a very long time. His face is caked with salt and his eyes are red and glassy. Even when emotionally compromised he makes a beautiful sight. Monster allure, nothing more. Minerva waits. So does her Boggart. His mouth moves. Minerva tries to read his lips. His hand is outstretched towards her. It's enunciated, but the blood rushing through her mind is hard to lower in volume so she settles on seeing what spell he's casting wandlessly with his free arm.

Hom e

Minerva's eyes widen.

Num

She breaks eye contact to turn around and look for the exit. Will he set the Basilisk on her if she runs? Hogwarts needs her. The children need someone good in this wake of Death Eaters.

''Stay there.'' Voldemort orders, in english.

He turns back to the Basilisk and tells it to leave. It slithers back into the walls. Voldemort takes out his wand and puts the wall to rights. Only when the threat of the Basilisk is gone does Minerva McGonagall unveil herself.

With light steps he goes to her and snatches the cloak from her hands to drape across himself. ''I will return it first thing tomorrow morning at breakfast.'' She looks down and notices that she's taller than him, a bit, but it's strange. ''You may have noticed I look a ghastly sight.'' She has. Which isn't the reason why she's letting him take the cloak. It's her self preservation that keeps her mouth shut and demeanour biddable. ''Good night, Headmistress.''

Minerva doesn't tell him how much her title feels like a sting whenever he says it. He doesn't mean to, she figures, but nonetheless it feels like a corrupted flirtation.

''Where are you going?'' Minerva asks him because she isn't ready to even mention the events from this evening. He looks grateful to her.

''Forest.''

Minerva remembers all of the rumours about Tom Riddle going into the Forbidden Forest to brew absinthe with the older Ravenclaws and isn't able to contain a scoff at the mental image. ''All right, professor.''

''You may call me Voldemort if you wish.'' Lord Voldemort grants her a privilege, his eyes sparkling like all eyes do after a good cry. Minerva shakes her head and tells him she's content with how she calls him.

''Let's not pretend we're friends.'' Minerva whispers.

''Let's not pretend we're enemies, either.'' Voldemort smiles and pulls the hood of the invisibility cloak over his head, disappearing.

Minerva McGonagall goes to her bedroom and finally falls asleep.

At breakfast tomorrow morning Voldemort is missing.


	11. Chapter 11

Voldemort wakes up in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Abraxas Malfoy is sleeping in a chair next to his bed. He looks absolutely wrecked. Sleeping upright does that to an aristocrat.

In an attempt not to wake him, Voldemort takes to looking at his arms, specifically his veins which are glowing faintly and are connected to a bag of blood hanging nearby. It's like a wireless IV that drips directly into his body. Magic is such a lazy, innovative thing.

He checks his bodily movements and all is well. Next is the agenda of slipping unnoticed from his bed and into the attached bathroom to his personal room. Propping his bare feet to the floor, Voldemort hisses at the cold. Sometimes he feels like a snake and thinks he's cold blooded. He wonders if all parselmouths feel slightly like snakes, or if that's because his most genuine companions have only been snakes.

Inside the bathroom he takes a look at himself. There's a bite mark on his right eye. It's nearly swollen shut. Pulsating to the touch. Purple. A shudder runs through him. He tries to remember what bit him.

Remembers going into the Forbidden Forest, as one does. Remembers taking off the invisibility cloak to use to sit down on. Remembers being ambushed. Remembers spiders. Hundreds of spiders. Thousands of spiders. Remembers a talking spider. No, a talking  _ acromantula _ . Remembers being bitten and the venom coursing through him and falling unconscious.

''You're awake.'' Abraxas drowsily says from the doorframe. Voldemort whirls around to see him. The blond wizard looks older. It's true that he's only a month older than him, but wizards shouldn't look this aged. This stressed. The man's got grey patches of hair and wrinkles across his forehead. An unclear mind does not see these things the first time around, not to mention that aside from Francois' camera Voldemort hardly remembers how people look like, he hardly remembers how he looks like half of the time.

''A healer should get here in a bit to check up on you.''

Voldemort trails towards him and Abraxas doesn't flinch away from the small caress that starts from his left cheek. ''You worry me, my lord.'' Voldemort doesn't say anything to that, he simply lowers his hand to wrap around Abraxas' neck and lowers the blond into a kiss with him. It's been too long since the last time he has allowed himself to enjoy anything physical. Usually it's a distraction for him from the war, from illness, from peace, from hospitals and memories.

Abraxas grabs hold of his hips and pulls him closer so their bodies are irrevocably touching. Soft hands rest on his open back and Voldemort abhors hospital gowns especially. Nonetheless, he deepens the kiss. He enjoys the breathless little moan that slips from his confidant and brings his hands upward into the blond's hair to tousle it. Malfoys care about their hair and must have it proper even when under extreme duress. It's a spiteful tactic to piss Abraxas off.

Sensing his intentions, Abraxas laughs and breaks the kiss to tell him they shouldn't engage in any activities that may impair his healing. Voldemort has a gut feeling that it's actually because of his messing up those lush Malfoy locks, but fine.

''You need bed rest.'' firmly the aristocrat tells him.

''Then let us rest in bed.'' playfully Voldemort gestures his hospital bed.

''No.'' Abraxas says, exasperated with him. ''No, my lord.''

Voldemort shrugs, but obliges anyhow. He goes back to bed and Abraxas sits in his chair.

''You look pretty in the hospital gown, my lord.'' Abraxas gestures the periwinkle gown Voldemort is dressed in. It opens in the back and Voldemort doesn't look at all pleased to be in it.

''Logically I understand why I'm in it, but I want to kill whoever undressed me.'' Voldemort says with a scowl. Abraxas pats his hand and tells him he was here from the beginning of his admission. This sets his mind at ease, if only a little bit. Hospitals have never been a good place for him. He remembers the mental institution Mrs. Cole took him to as a child before he went to Hogwarts and he thinks he remembers wearing a similar thing like he does now. He isn't sure.

''How did I come here, Abraxas?''

''After your idiotic venture into the Forbidden Forest completely backfired,'' Abraxas is pleased with this. Voldemort scoffs at him. Abraxas has never crossed one foot into the Forest. He thinks it has DEATH lurking around every corner. ''That half-creature oaf took you to Hogsmeade and you were then transferred to St. Mungo's.''

'' _ Hagrid  _ saved  **my ** life.'' Voldemort dumbly states. Abraxas deliberates whether to nod at that or not. ''Where is he?''

A cruel glint enters Abraxas' eyes. ''Bellatrix is interrogating him at the Ministry.''

''Why?''

''Seems a little too convenient, in my opinion, for him to just find you at the right time and the right place. That acromantula  _ is _ his pet.''

''You think he orchestrated this attack?''

''Yes.'' Abraxas affirms. Voldemort doesn't buy it. Hagrid is an uneducated groundskeeper with the academic knowledge of a thirteen year old. He knows creatures, this much he knows from their joint time at Hogwarts, but this takes retribution and finesse to create. Though, he may be wrong and Hagrid is indeed an expert head of an acromantula famiglia that has ordered a hit on his person because of their past differences. It does sound like a possibility.

''You're thinking.'' Abraxas says. Voldemort scoffs a laugh through a breath that slips past him undetected.

''I am, yes.'' Voldemort teases the pureblood, ''That is a pastime those who don't spend all of their waking time criticizing other people's gardens do.''

''Malfoy Manor has the most exquisite garden and I shall fight anyone who deems otherwise!'' Abraxa Malfoy brandishes his willow wand and says that he is the undefeated champion. ''Orion tried to fight me once in 1949, but I cursed him well.''

Voldemort shakes his head in utter amusement. That time is his Albania venture, he doesn't know half of the things that Abraxas was up to. ''Tell me more.''

Abraxas knowingly looks at his discomfort in being in a hospital, and indulges him. ''Bien sur! Mon Merlin, Thoros once tried to prank me in 1950 - also with Orion, I waged a war with him then'' Voldemort smiles at that mental image. Orion has always seemed like a very down-to-earth individual. ''They enchanted all of my red roses white! Who bloody well cares for  _ white  _ roses? I had to cast paint charms to paint them red because Antoinette was having people over specifically to look at our red rose bushes. It was madness!''

''Like Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?'' Voldemort remembers Tom Riddle reading that book as a child and loving every bit of it. He especially liked the caterpillar.

''I've never read that.'' Abraxas confides. ''I don't read muggle literature.''

''I know for a fact that you read Shakespeare.'' Voldemort points out. ''You quoted Much Ado About Nothing in our seventh year at everyone. I hadn't read it yet and you were being very inconsiderate with the passages you chose to regale me with… ''

''I do love  **nothing** in the world so well as you- is not that strange?" Abraxas places a hand across his heart and winks at Voldemort.

''Stop it you.'' Voldemort tells him.

Then Abraxas explains: ''The Bard is the Bard, muggle or not. My tutors designed to instill in me an appreciation for all things Shakespeare. ''

''What is that one quote you said to Walburga that had her both feeling flattered and angered at the same time?''

"I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue." Abraxas merrily chuckles and laughter really is contagious because Voldemort allows himself some reprieve.

Once their laughter subsides Abraxas stands up and bows a deep bow to Lord Voldemort. Voldemort sighs deeply, knowing where this is going and not wanting it to go there because he knows that the man is being genuinely extra.

Abraxas grabs hold of Voldemort's hand and kisses it. ''I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest, my lord.''

Voldemort gives him an underhanded glance and whispers: ''I will feed you to Beatrice.''

''I am not intimidated by a snake called  _ Beatrice _ .''

''Jormungandr, whatever.'' Voldemort fans his hand in a very pureblood, dismissive way that he's picked up from Abraxas.

''At least we know your fail-safes for death work.'' Abraxas says, inching closer and kissing the man's closer arm in a very ostentatious and needy manner. Voldemort lets him because he's deep in thought again, this time not thinking about the Basilisk. He can do with distractions. Even from Abraxas who is not yet off the hook for his meddling.

That's when a healer comes into the room. She first bows deeply for Voldemort and then nods politely in Abraxas' direction. Her hands fish out the correct chart from her many. ''My lord, my name is Rowle Ophelia. Allow me to preface this by saying that I'll be conducting all of your medical procedures from this point on. You were admitted here around two in the morning.'' Voldemort glances at the clock in the room because his watch isn't on his wrist which makes him feel even more naked. It's two in the afternoon. ''You were in a state of delirium and high fever. We administered the correct antivenom and lowered your fever. Then when you were more stable you were given a blood transfusion.''

Voldemort looks back at the blood bag and wonders how many times this was attempted last night. ''And the blood you used?'' He knows Abraxas isn't his blood type.

''From the hospital cache.'' Rowle answers and continues speeding through her chart, answering all of his questions diligently. Voldemort asks about the privacy wards. Secure. He inquires about how much of his medical history she knows. Rowle may be in her late twenties but she levels a gaze that could rival his own when she informs him that she has made an unbreakable vow and is aware of all of his dark arts endeavours in order to give him the best care possible.

Voldemort grabs hold of Abraxas' hand in a painful, unforgiving grip. Abraxas bites down a yelp.

He continues to talk with the healer in a normal fashion. She tells him that there are three reasons why he's survived that bite. The acromantula is young and its venom is not as potent, his horcruxes by definition disallow his soul from leaving his body at the speed other humans' souls do, and his genetic predisposition for venom encounters - all parselmouths have an in-built filtering system in their magic that helps slow any and all venoms. It's not a snake venom, but it works on similarly.

''You're a very lucky man to have survived this, my lord.'' Rowle says and keeps checking her chart. She can discharge him tomorrow -

'' _ Now.'' _

\- She can discharge him now, but on the condition that he rests and doesn't drink anything that may disrupt the healing process.

''What, for example?''

''I've checked your medical record.'' Rowle says and doesn't make eye contact, very few people can keep eye contact with him for long. The colour disturbs them. ''You can still continue taking Vitamix, it's even encouraged - but the other two potions need to either be severely reduced or cut altogether. They interfere with magic.''

''How does added endurance interfere with magic?'' Abraxas asks, not at all happy with this reduction in medication.

Both Rowle and Voldemort look at him condescendingly, but Voldemort allows the medical professional to spell it out to him. ''It stretches the magic. Forces it to last longer. Lord Voldemort's magic must be in its most comfortable form in order to continue filtering the venom out. We've gotten the most out of him, but acromantula venom tends to linger. That swelling,'' Rowle points out Voldemort's eye, ''will reduce in a couple of days on its own. Charm it away for aesthetic reasons, but leave it alone to breathe. Do you have a familiar?''

Voldemort doesn't know if the Basilisk counts. ''No.''

''Shame. Usually venom from a familiar has healing properties. I suppose if you know a Phoenix bird it can cry on it.''

Dumbledore's chicken has been eaten by Greyback. Voldemort remembers Abraxas being very drunk upon decreeing that reward. He remembers Greyback being even more drunk when accepting the boon and eating the recently killed phoenix.

''Thank you for your help, Doctor Rowle,'' Voldemort doesn't have to say the actual words to get her out of his room. Rowle understands to leave because she can read the room. With a bow, she leaves to discharge him, but asks him to reconsider -

''Thank you,'' Voldemort adds more forcefully. She nods, again, cuts off his connection with the drained blood bag, and then exits.

When the door closes and the two old wizards are left alone, Voldemort pulls Abraxas closer to him and sticks him to the spot with wandless, calculated magic. Abraxas has the sense to look unsettled. As he should. His magic, however, is still too arrogant and haughty to be allowed this much leeway.

The previous transgressions come to the forefront of Voldemort's mind. Abraxas Malfoy's meddling becomes even more prominent the more he thinks. It's his fault, really, for not setting him guidelines. It's his fault, really, for thinking Abraxas capable enough of discerning that commanding the people is allowed.  _ He  _ is not people. He is an  **immortal ** among them and this flagrant disrespect cannot stand.

''Abraxas,'' Voldemort addresses him and Abraxas is too proud a man to do anything as Gryffindor as gulp in fear. Slytherins never show how they feel, they don't even allow their own bodies to betray them in circumstances. ''Who am I?''

''Lord Voldemort.'' Abraxas gives him a strange look, as if trying to decide whether to call the healer back in and check if the venom reached his mind. ''My lord, I don't understaA-''

Voldemort channels the very first spell he learned to do as a child and from direct skin to skin contact transfers the cruciatus curse coursing through him onto Abraxas' twisting, tensed form. With his free hand, the one that isn't holding this idiot of his down, he swipes it and casts a silencing charm on Abraxas to keep the screaming down.

''I am Lord Voldemort.'' Voldemort's crimson eyes glow with the magical energy newly released. ''I am the most powerful wizard the magical world has yet seen.'' Abraxas nods along, hoping that sycophantish behaviour will be rewarded with mercy. It won't. ''I gave you power to lead in my place, yes.'' Voldemort tells Abraxas and has the much overdue conversation. ''I told you not to disturb me, also - but I understand why you still continue to send me those letters and I do reply to them because I can and it's good to be included in matters as important as half of those.'' Abraxas is doubling over, but can't move, can't flinch out of his grasp. Voldemort's grip on him is unrelenting and unfaltering.

''However,'' the didactic tone which he uses sets a scene that reminds more of a classroom rather than this casual, unforgivable punishment, ''I underestimated how power hungry you were. You were never given any power over  _ me _ , Abraxas.''

Abraxas' hand is so tense that if he lets it go right now, Voldemort is sure it would remain in such a frozen, painful position until the cruciatus wears off in the next few hours. He eases up on the energy and watches, relishes in the twitches of the man next to him.

''The only reason why you are not dead for your audacity is because I know you did it all in good faith. Stick to bad faith, Mal foi.''

Abraxas is heaving and Voldemort's lips quirk upward. ''You are never to tell anyone - I don't bloody fucking CARE what the circumstances are - about my condition.'' meaning the horcruxes, ''You are NEVER to go behind my back like you did with McGonagall - you weren't helping,'' he hisses, ''you were only making your punishment worse and humiliating me in front of her. I am not a  _ child _ . Let me live  **my ** _ fucking  _ life!''

The blond is by this point trying to remain upright and breathing, but his heart may give out if this continues, so Voldemort pulls the cruciatus back completely and even takes off the silencing charm to hear Abraxas Malfoy wheezing and crying and being absolutely  _ perfect _ .

Lifting Abraxas' face now, Voldemort looks at him and pronounces: ''See, Abraxas, this could have been avoided had you not been a meddlesome prick.''

Abraxas is shaking whether from anger or the cruciatus, Voldemort does not care. He narrows his eyes and meets furious silver. ''I am fond of you, Abraxas. Do not disappoint me again.''

His pride trampled, his assuredness and arrogance shaken and destroyed, Abraxas Malfoy whispers an apology. ''You are most merciful, my lord.''

''Yes.'' Voldemort agrees. ''I am.''

They call Rowle back in. She brings him a robe to slip into that isn't as invasive or as uncomfortable as the hospital one. Before putting it on, Voldemort instructs her that Lord Malfoy should be attended to. Without question she does as bid and he wishes more of his followers could be as efficient and straightforward as Rowle.

Instead of confining himself to bed rest, Voldemort disapparates to the Ministry.


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing he sees is Bellatrix leaning close to a magically bound Hagrid and grinning wickedly, her wand aimed at him, and her words mincing threats and probable spells. The creature's back is turned so Voldemort doesn't know whether Hagrid is even mentally there, after what's probably been done to him. Barty Jr. is trying not to react to Bellatrix's words, but he's failing and has to excuse himself from the interrogation room, much to the dismay of bad cop Bella, whom Voldemort hears yelling: ''Barty you arse, get back here this dynamic cannot function without a good auror!''

Barty is hurling into a trash can. Voldemort moves past him and enters the interrogation room because anyone that attempts to stop him needs only take one glance at him to figure out why it's that is a bad idea. He slips into a chair Barty recently occupied and greets Bella kindly. ''Hello, Bella.''

She doesn't bow to him anymore. He's noticed and doesn't mind it. Especially doesn't mind it when she leans closer to whisper magic words in his ear: ''I found the locket.''

Voldemort really, really values her in this moment. ''I thank you for your service.''

Bella winks at him and tells him that she's saved Hagrid for him to deal out the verdict. Voldemort enjoys being respected absolutely, he truly does. Bella, he doesn't dismiss because that is too impersonal, he simply asks Bella to leave. She does. Sweet girl.

Hagrid has obviously been crying. Voldemort props his elbows onto the table between them and tells him that he apologizes for any rough handling that's occured. The half giant isn't meeting his eyes, is staring down at his bound hands.

''I thank you for saving my life, even though I assume it was for selfish reasons.''

Hagrid closes his eyes, doesn't speak to him. He hopes that Bella has not broken him. It would be a shame. Hagrid is an important aspect of Hogwarts, he knows because Minerva McGonagall has a list of all of his accomplishments that she recites at the school board whenever they come to inspect the necessity of all staff there.

''Mr. Hagrid,'' Hagrid looks intent on not locking eyes with him - fine - he won't attempt legilimency because his magic is weak anyhow, ''have you been given veritaserum?''

''They didn't know how much teh give me.''

Voldemort understandably has a hard time believing that. He thinks Bella simply wished to blow some steam off on the creature in front of him. ''Well, luckily I know.''

Hagrid meets his eyes and asks him if he'll be able to return to Hogwarts after.

''I would never deprive Minerva McGonagall, our dear Headmistress, of your presence, Mr. Hagrid.'' Voldemort says genuinely, but also in a way that sounds like a complete farce. He has a gift there. Has always known how to twist words just so that they appear even more confusing that words already tend to be.

Hagrid drinks the correct dosage of veritaserum and Voldemort asks him, lightly, but there is nothing light in the question that follows: ''Did you tell the acromantulas to attack me?''

''No.'' Hagrid answers truthfully.

Voldemort doesn't believe him so he asks a more personal question. ''Did you open the Chamber of Secrets in 1943?''

''No!'' Hagrid's voice booms and cracks at the end of it. ''It wasn't me, and it wasn't Aragog he was a very kind boy - wouldn't hurt a fly - ''

''But he hurt me, Hagrid.'' Voldemort smiles. The gesture is displaced on him, Hagrid shakes. ''Aragog isn't a tiny spider anymore - he's large and has influence and a thirst for human flesh it seems. I must wonder why you were allowed to keep them in the Forest. You, single handedly, ruined a perfectly good ecosystem.''

''I did not!''

''Mr. Hagrid, please contain yourself.'' Voldemort relishes in saying this next part if only to gauge the other's reaction, ''Else, I'll bring Bellatrix back.''

Hagrid instantly obliges. How quaint. He ought to tell Bella that she's scarier than him nowadays. It's that Black madness in them all.

Voldemort is satisfied with the potion's dosage now. ''Do you know who did?''

''Yes.'' Hagrid says and manages a glare. His surface thoughts are all about how terrifying this is, how much revenge would be sweet, but he understands that his death would lead to so many others. How sweet, the half creature is  _ smart _ .

''Why did you save me?'' Voldemort wonders. It can't just be because of the goodness of his heart and how moral wins over all. No, it's selfish and he likes selfish people. It humanizes them. Selfish people are so much easier to manipulate.

''If you'd died they'd have killed all of the acromantulas and then me.'' Hagrid simply says. He doesn't want to die. Voldemort empathizes there because he, too, does not want to die. Ever. The ice is like prickles on his raised hairs on his arms.

''Well, I could have died in a number of ways.'' Voldemort says. ''I could have been webbed up and eaten. No evidence to point to the acromantulas.'' He speaks of his own death and it chills him, but he wants to prove a point and it's important. ''Maybe I just disappeared. You didn't have to save me.''

''I didn't.'' Hagrid agrees.

Voldemort's smile widens.

Hagrid's scowl deepens and he avoids eye contact again.

''I am thankful, don't misunderstand me. Death has never appealed to me, Mr. Hagrid.''

Hagrid thinks a proverb that Voldemort generally agrees with, except in the current sense. Help the poor for your own shame. He is neither poor and Hagrid is neither being shamed.

''The spiders are naturally going to all be killed.'' Voldemort tells him and watches Hagrid's reaction. His fists clench, but otherwise nothing more happens. Well, that's not true. Tears form in his eyes and they're much bigger than human tears. ''They're a danger to the students.''

''They're a danger teh yer because of yer actions.'' Hagrid doesn't call him my lord and there's something natural about that. Given their history, Voldemort allows this. ''Aragog remembers ya. He's a kind soul-'' is this about souls, Voldemort wonders, do spiders even have souls? Is he more soulless than an insect? ''He'd never-''

''But he  _ has _ , Hagrid. He has chosen to thwart me and you have chosen to save me. Content yourself with your dog and live your life.''

''They're endangered.'' Hagrid says.

Voldemort can't fault him there and again he's reminded of how smart - naive, yes - Hagrid is. He could have been great. But alas racism has done him in. It wasn't anything personal. Voldemort just remembers needing a scapegoat.

''Tell you what.'' Voldemort doesn't know why he's even negotiating with Hagrid at all. The medication used to keep him upright may be it. His blood transfusion may be it. The cruciatus he's used may be it. The apparating he's done may be it. The lack of potions may be it. The lack of Hogwarts most  _ certainly  _ is.

''What?'' Hagrid feels small even though he's two times larger than Voldemort. Which is just phenomenal and doesn't at all play into his childish insecurities. He's glamoured the swollen bite, and he won't lower that bite at all. Because to show weakness is ill-advised. Lord Voldemort is not  _ allowed  _ to be  **weak** .

''The acromantulas are endangered, this is true. However, under the circumstances, it's dangerous to let them live. I am telling you that they're all going to be burned - eaten - or the like.'' Hagrid is shaking. Voldemort is not deterred. ''This is a lapse in your education, Hagrid. Nothing more. You don't know better because you had one year of Care for Magical Creatures and that's it. Kettleburn is…'' Voldemort lets that sentence dangle because Kettleburn is a bloody menace that needs to be replaced by someone competent whom creatures like. Kettleburn and his few limbs are proof that the man has been attacked too many times by his own lesson subjects to have a safe environment for teaching.

Hagrid hasn't, much to the dismay of all purebloods around. He's competent, just uneducated.

Voldemort is high and freezing and thinks that Rowle was right to tell him to stay in bed, but he isn't going to verbally admit that, ever. Exhaustion seeps into his bones and rests there.

''How would you like to finish your education?''

The question shifts and weighs Hagrid down. There is hope in his eyes, but also distrust. The last time he trusted him - no, not him because he is Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle ruined Hagrid's life.

''Can't use magic.'' Hagrid mumbles.

''I'm certain I can pull enough strings to get that waived, Mr. Hagrid.'' Voldemort pushes for this because it's a good idea of a delirious mind. It's a good idea because it's deserved. Education is important. Obviously if the half giant agrees he won't go back to Hogwarts classrooms, but instead there will be tutors to prepare him nightly. He'll sit OWLs and then NEWTs and then maybe - maybe Kettleburn will stop maiming himself and his students. That class is a safety hazard. It always has been.

''Why?''

You're an accessory to a crime I committed to Ravenclaw,

Voldemort thinks.

He smiles and says instead, something equally truthful: ''You saved my life. I can't be indebted to a creature, Mr. Hagrid. Life debts are fickle things. Let me save yours.''

Hagrid thinks. Voldemort waits. Hagrid thinks. Voldemort drums his long, skeletal fingers against the table and hums a snake song he's heard from Beatrice. Jormungandr be damned, that snake's a gentle giant.

''How do I know yer not lying?''

''You don't.'' Voldemort instantly tells him. ''I'm not, however.''

Hagrid nods.

Voldemort grins. It's a gesture that doesn't suit him, really. He shows too much teeth with it. Makes people uncomfortable because it's snakelike and not human. The rituals he's done with snakes over the years and the deterioration in his soul have made him slightly less human. Outwardly he remains. His mind, too, remains. But his mannerisms sometimes reminisce abnormality.

He calls Bella back in and tells her to release Hagrid.

Life is good! He's doing good! He's surviving!

They leave the interrogation rooms and Voldemort dodges a green curse fired from a wand held by the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black's one and only Walburga Black.

He fumbles for his wand and remembers that he's not taken it from St. Mungo's in his hurry to just leave that power hungry, incompetent, irresponsible, audacious Abraxas Malfoy.

Bellatrix throws him a wand he recognizes as Albus Dumbledore's. She holds onto her own wand, walnut. They hide behind a pillar.

''What is this, Bella?''

''A mother scorned.'' Bellatrix explains without explaining. Slytherins, every single one of his contacts.

Voldemort grips the wand and feels unimaginably strange to have it. There's an urge that grips him, throttles him, and demands he use it. It's like a siren's song.

''RIDDLE!''

Walburga Black's voice is not a siren's song - it is a banshee's scream that he remembers haunting him for seven long years of Hogwarts. There are two things that have made Hogwarts unideal to him: Dumbledore and Walburga Black. One is dead. Perhaps it's time for the other to scurry along the same path.

''Aunt Burga, I  _ will  _ arrest you!'' Bellatrix Black shouts, her teeth set in a snarl. She looks dangerously divine. Like a righteous warrioress set loose on a world ready to burn in her wake. Magic crackles in her hair. Magic crackles in Albus Dumbledore's wand won over by Bella and then given willingly to him.

Aurors fire hexes and Walburga does her best at deflecting them. But it is her own blood that has her disarmed and taken down. Bella strikes like a viper from behind the pillar, she waits and knows when to fire.

The wand hisses at Voldemort.

Voldemort doesn't understand it because it isn't parseltongue and it isn't any language he understands. It's power and corruption and compulsion and a NEED builds inside him to use it, to feed it destruction and chaos and suffering and -

''DEATH!'' Walburga shouts at him. ''You are the plague of our society, Tom Riddle!''

Voldemort moves from the pillar and casually moves towards her, thinking and thinking and gripping the wand and trying not to falter, trying not to hiss and wonder what this wand is - why this wand is like this - why he has no need to ever take another wand ever again. His childhood wand lays forgotten in his mind as he points it at Walburga.

''You will be the DEATH of our PUREBLOOD world! Mark my words, you are standing behind an upstart mudblood!'' Her hair is like tendrils of black cascading downard. Her eyes are like the abyss staring back at him. Her form is exquisite and he remembers wishing to make friends with her if only so he can use her money and wealth.

''Can any of you see what you're doing? This filthy, disgusting  _ arriviste  _ will be our end!''

Mutters go through the crowd. Walburga Black's word still means something, even though she looks completely deranged. Even though her firstborn son languishes in Azkaban with Dementors to pick apart his brain. Even though her second born son languishes in a cave, cradled by Inferi.

''Lady Black,'' Voldemort smiles and he has dreamed of this moment. He has dreamed of watching the life leave from her eyes too many times to count.

He wants to make her scream, just once. Just bloody once he wants to make her scream  _ for  _ him. Not at him.

The wand hisses in agreement. The wand enables. The wand whispers  _ do it. _

''This attempt on my life shall not go unpunished.'' Then to the crowd that has gathered to watch. To the aurors that are on standby. To Bellatrix that has chosen her side and shall not interfere. ''This is what happens when you deign to attack Lord Voldemort.''

_ Do IT Do IT DOIT _ ** _doitdoitodidoit_ ** ** _doit!_ **

Voldemort waves the elder wand and casts the most powerful cruciatus he has ever cast in his entire life so far. The flash of red explodes and Walburga Black's wretched scream sounds like the sweetest chanson in any canzoniere played out for his own, personal amusement.

He twists the wand and even more power surges. Her screaming intensifies, electrifies.

Solely, his focus lies on Walburga Black's thrashing form. She looks like a broken statue of old displayed for his eyes in a private collection. Her roman face gleams with sweat and tears, but her eyes hold that spark of recognition he adores.

_ Kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her _

Impudence against a king is met with the death penalty, but he wants that honour. He doesn't want her to die by anyone's hand but his own.

_ Do it do it do it do it DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT _

He has half a mind of discarding the wand of reckoning, kneeling before her crumpled form, and wrapping his arms around her throat to squeeze the last bits of life out of her. She will, no doubt, use her last breath to snarl something at him and he will revel in her arrogance and haughtiness and pureblood fantasies. The power remains in the hands of the powerful. Blood is something he has used to get to power and now that he has it he shan't ever allow anyone else to hold it.

Voldemort's hands itch and the ice is filled with  **fire** . He drowns in it, he claws to free himself of it. It's too much fire. It's too much insanity cooped up between them three. Bella, he spots, is watching intently. Is watching him if he collapses to bring him with her. Hagrid is looking ill. The rest are watching a lesson unfolding like children.

''Lady Black, I offer you a chance to see reason.'' he crouches down to her and takes a fistfull of her black hair to twist in a painful grip. She twitches and shakes and snarls and spits directly in his face, calling him abhorrent. There is silence, just barely contained by mob justice clicking to their king's defence.

''Kill her! Punish her!'' His Death Eaters shout. His sympathizers clap. Bellatrix is close. Hagrid has left the scene. It's too much for the sensitive sort.

Voldemort presses the tip of the wand to Walburga's neck, but she beats him to the punch and at the same time that her hand flies to his chest to push some of her magic into him he's whispering Avada - but hers is one word - and his is two.

Hers is Ancient Greek and his is Aramaic. Hers is a secret and his is well known.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black will not go down easily. Will not go down without a fight that will leave Walburga Black satisfied. Her hand slams into his chest, into his fractured soul and it  **cracks** .

''-Kedavra.'' he kills her and he doesn't at all feel victorious for it.

Especially not when the last glint of life in her isn't terrified to be dying, but instead is self-congratulatory. This is her plan. This has been her since from the beginning of the attack - to get him close. Regulus knows. The elf knows. Bella knows. WALBURGA FUCKING BLACK KNOWS

Knew.

Walburga Black doesn't know anything anymore.

Voldemort doesn't know what she cast on him. He doesn't know which book from the ever mysterious Noble and Most Ancient House of Black's library Walburga has found this soul spell to cast on him as vengeance for her sons.

Bellatrix runs to him. The cheers of the people are not nearly as gratifying as they should be. Her hands wrap around him and she's disapparating them both. He just hopes they don't get splinched.

His weekend has started marvelously.

The wand hisses

_ More _


	13. Chapter 13

Apparating disbalances him and he drops the wand Bella's given him to protect himself. It clatters to the hardwood floor of her apartment. She props him up with her form to steady him from falling and he's thankful.

''I have never been allowed anywhere near the Black library.'' Voldemort starts and speaking seems to help keep his thoughts grounded. That's important. To stay aware of himself in the wake of the ice tumbling and the fire scorching and the cracks lining. Bellatrix's apartment isn't grand like the Manor she could be living in right now, but it's hers all the same.

Her hands guide him to a couch to sit on.

''I've always wondered what books it has. I hate being deprived of knowledge, any knowledge. This,'' breathing burns, ''is an attack on a soul. I know two spells about souls. One to make a horcrux and the other to destroy it. This,'' his words hurry and tears spring in his eyes involuntarily as he tries to piece himself together, ''this is something I never could have anticipated before. I want to know what's been cast on me. I want to figure out what Walburga Black's dying wish is a posteriori. It's like an arm breaking and then getting set wrong.''

Bellatrix Black is rummaging through her apartment. She's out of view and he feels so alone, so strange, so vulnerable. He breathes to calm himself. He breathes. Breathing burns. His tears evaporate.

''I can feel it.'' he feels like a broken record by his repetitive nature of panic settling deep within his bones. ''I can feel it. There's a jagged, cut on my very, very broken-already soul. It's like she tried to tear me apart.''

From out of a corner Bellatrix emerges, still silent and worried by the pale expression on her already aristocratically pale visage. Where Walburga's hands pressed, Bellatrix presses an object. It seems to ease the way. ''Take it.'' Bellatrix orders. Voldemort listens to her once he takes the object he feels a flush, a surge, a maelstrom of familiarity overcome him.

It's the locket horcrux. His hands grip it like a lifeline as he presses it against his soul and murmurs in parseltongue magic. A fledgling connection forms between the broken soul and the bit residing in the object. It feels like being possessed, in a way. Voldemort understands that he is the original, but the larger bit of his soul is in the locket - his most recent.

Mrs. Cole screamed so prettily before he killed her to make it. He pictures her face, scorched by fiendfyre - recounting this event helps him in regaining his composure. His knuckles are skeleton white while they hold onto the locket. 

Bellatrix leaves him again, this time by disapparating. He doesn't ask after where she's gone. Instead, now that there's clarity to cling to and safety to enjoy - Voldemort stands from the couch to peruse the environment he has found himself in.

Bella doesn't decorate much. She has necessities which here include furniture, an abundance of kitchen supplies that Voldemort doesn't even know why people need. Who needs that stupid bread container? Bread bed? Though, this may be his frugality talking. Bella's probably one of those completionist who demand to own everything.

He goes into the kitchen and thinks about making himself something to eat. Swinging open the fridge reveals nothing healthy inside. ''Bella,'' Voldemort irritably says, remembering that this is her first time living alone, ''this is not how you live.'' There's a full shelf - a fully stacked shelf of frozen food that when you wave your wand at pops ready. It's good to eat maybe twice a week, once every two weeks is most preferred - but this looks like Bellatrix's go-to meal. Which is disgraceful. Bellow this is various desserts. She has mentioned to him that pureblood girls are prohibited from eating sweets until they marry and secure an heir. It's unladylike to indulge in sweets because their physique may become deformed by the calories. The lowest shelf is his favourite, however - it's just potatoes. ''Bella, what in Merlin's name…you don't keep potatoes in the refrigerator.''

He takes a bunch of potatoes and decides to make himself chips. Except Bella doesn't have any pots to put the potatoes in. She has a  _ skillet _ . Why does she have a skillet and not pots is beyond him. Voldemort knows, logically, that he can conjure up pots but he doesn't like how food tastes when magic is added into the mix so he decides to venture into a culinary  _ adventure _ .

He peels the potatoes by magic because he isn't a plebeian. It's done wandlessly because that wand, Voldemort eyes it warily, is something completely different than he's ever dealt with. The implications of it being the elder wand (the only thing that comes to mind to explain such power and augmentation and compulsion) are too much for Voldemort to bear right this moment.

Voldemort likes cooking by hand. He's secretly enjoyed all of the times Mrs. Cole made him be on kitchen duty because it means that he knows for certainty that no one's spat in his food. That's such a weird reason to like cooking, Voldemort laughs. He's wearing the locket and it presses, as if with a sticking charm, to his body and doesn't dangle.

A younger, more warren version of him is standing next to him. ''Look at yourself.'' Youth sneers. ''Oh don't act like you're the epitome of wisdom.'' It rolls its eyes. Horcrux. It's the horcrux, Voldemort reminds himself and returns to cooking. He casts shield spells on himself in order for the oil not to attack him.

''You made me in 1971 when you got too scared of dying and wanted to make sure that you had just enough of us all.'' The locket's horcrux walks about, it's nothing but a projection of the soul residing inside it. Voldemort isn't intimidated by his somewhat younger self. ''Ignoring me now, are you?''

''You are being incredibly needy right now when I'm cooking and trying to concentrate. Come back later.''

''I should be the one given control of that body, not you-you simple, fragmented monstrocity.'' It hisses, angrily. ''You don't deserve the elder wand.''

Voldemort looks at his younger self and thinks directly at it, giving it just enough information to realise that he has no idea what he'd even do  _ with  _ it. In an era of peace the elder wand only brings discontent. It's powerful to have in war, but it's redundant to be waved about now. Not to mention that it paints a target on his back - KILL ME AND EARN INFAMY! Voldemort is tired of people wanting to kill him. He just wants to live! And teach! And be at Hogwarts!

''Disgraceful.'' it snarls and petulantly crosses its arms whilst sitting on the couch.

A speck of oil goes past his mighty shield and hits him straight in the eye. Voldemort curses and goes to the sink to wash it out.

The horcrux laughs at him. ''Serves you right!''

''I haven't the time for you.''

''Mh, I can already see what occupies your time - dying, horribly. Also, hurting Abraxas. That's always lovely to see.''

''He is being too much.''

''Then avoid him. Abraxas hasn't done us anything wrong.''

Voldemort explains why he's had to hurt Abraxas. The horcrux shrugs. ''Overreaction on your part.''

''You're only saying that because you want autonomy. Which you aren't getting.''

It seethes. ''I am not the Diary!''

''What about the diary?''

''It's a child.'' The Locket says. ''Worse, an entitled teenager!''

''Oh, like you're acting right now, you mean?'' Voldemort parries. His chips have burned but right now he doesn't quite care. Scooping them into a plate and carrying them to the sofa, Voldemort reclines and begins eating his finger food. The Locket is dejectedly staring at him and then at the food.

''The diadem wonders why you haven't visited. It's happy you're teaching, at least.''

''The diadem can wait. I don't want to draw attention to it by tracking it down all for a nice chat.''

''What a load of shite.''

''I'm  _ eating _ .'' Voldemort hisses. ''Refrain from ruining what little reprieve I'm entitled to.''

''Here’s a mental image for you then if you can’t handle some  _ shite _ : Mrs. Cole's naked body glistening in the pale moonlight. You've just been called to her room for punishment but there she awaits, like a gawking grandmother figure no orphan wishes to have, ready to show you the beautiful joys of aged womanhood-''

''Fine.'' Voldemort says and sets down his chips. ''I'm listening. What do you want from me?''

The Locket's eyes spark. He can't believe there's only a ten year difference between them. This horcrux looks much younger, much more powerful. ''I want to be reabsorbed.''

''Firstly, I don't think you'll earn power over this body by doing that. I think it will only have me become more stable. Secondly, I don't know where to start researching that.''

''Herpo the Foul.'' Locket says.

''Is a nickname. The actual wizard is off somewhere breeding basilisks in Greece.''

''Offer Beatrice to him. That ought to get him interested enough.''

''Beatrice doesn't like change, she's a sweet thing and this would traumatize her.''

''Oh my god. I'm so bloody grateful that the fucking love for snakes skipped me over. You sound like the Ring. Snakes this snakes that. The only people who love me are snakes. I see dead snakes everywhere!''

''Dead snakes?'' Voldemort wonders. ''Why would it see  _ dead  _ snakes?''

Locket shrugs. ''Bloody hell if I fucking know.''

''I am not reabsorbing the horcruxes.'' Voldemort answers him finally. ''Not yet at least. And not you. You sinister twat. I'll start with the cup, because the cup is the only one that actually likes me out of all of you.''

The locket lets out a disinterested laugh and jumps to its feet. ''You're making a mistake.'' It says and returns into the locket. It weighs the same. Voldemort goes back to eating his chips. Wishes there's some fish to go along with it, but doesn't think he can handle preparing fish right this moment.

Bellatrix pops back into her apartment and tells him that Walburga Black did a detailed sweep of the Library. ''There's no trace of her even being there. Kreacher claims that she was, but Walburga cleaned after herself. If there's a book that she used she definitely destroyed it afterwards.''

Voldemort doesn't despair! He stress eats instead. ''Sit with me, Bella.'' She does and takes some of the chips when offered. They sit like that in silence, eating the giant abundance of chips Voldemort has prepared. The locket firmly sits on his chest. Bellatrix comments that he should keep it on his person. He fears that he has no other choice.

''How goes teaching?''

''There's this  _ fink  _ that acts exactly like Abraxas Malfoy.'' Voldemort is still not over Gilderoy Lockhart's mere existence.

''Oh Merlin, the world is not ready for two of them.'' Bellatrix laughs.

Voldemort doesn't find that a laughing matter at all. Especially not because he teaches the little shite. Bellatrix makes them some tea.

''Bella, do you have pots?'' he finally thinks to inquire of the confused witch.

''Yes.'' Bellatrix answers and finishes eating the chips. ''Why do you ask, my lord?'

''I couldn't find them.'' Voldemort asks where she keeps them. Bella goes into the kitchen. Then when she opens the freezer lo and behold she reveals empty pots.

''Bella,'' Voldemort loves this girl like a daughter sometimes, and other times like his most esteemed Death Eater. ''Please let me teach you how you're supposed to live alone.'' He doesn't remember himself ever- ever being this lost. Not even while he was trying to navigate Burke's world and retail. It's different growing up with nothing and having to earn everything than it is growing up with everything and having to learn how to not be a posh mess.

''My lord, I'll figure it out. Don't concern yourself with it. You need to get better.''

''Bella, do you even KNOW how to cook?'' Lord Voldemort asks, already anticipating a negative answer.

''Well, no. But I'll figure it out. It's fun. I nearly burned down the apartment yesterday.'' Bella smiles at any prospect of destruction. In a way that optimism is reassuring. Everyone eventually figures out existing and living and surviving. Though, he does still think that Bella might not be able to because of her background.

''Bella, do you know how to boil water?'' His british roots tug and he looks at this girl and wonders if she knows how to make tea.

''I just incendio it.'' Bellatrix says. ''It's quicker.''

''Bella, no, that's a safety hazard.''

''It gets the job done, either way!'

''You are the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,'' Voldemort stands from the couch and goes into the kitchen, disallowing Bella to leave. ''You need to know how to cook.''

''Fine.'' Bellatrix tells him. ''Teach me how to cook.''

Voldemort opens the refrigerator again and tells her that there isn't anything to bloody cook except ruddy potatoes.

Bella unapologetically stares him down. ''I like potatoes.''

''Bella,  _ why _ ?''

''They're easy to make!''

Voldemort takes a quill and draws her the food pyramid then to teach her that she can't live off of potatoes, desserts, and frozen foods alone!

''My mother never let me have potatoes! I don't even know why. I never got to eat them while I was living with them.'' Bellatrix is definitely one of those people who have absolutely no idea about healthy eating but just know they want to spite their parents.

''Did you ever think that you might be allergic?''

''I've been eating potatoes for the better part of the week and nothing's gone wrong yet.'' Bella says. That's true. Then the Black family avoiding potatoes has to be something incredibly strange and mysterious because no valid reasons are coming to Voldemort.

''My life is taking strange turns.'' Voldemort abruptly says.

Bella rolls her eyes and goes to pick the discarded wand up. She first coats her arm with a spell and then snatches it into her grasp.

''Why did you do that?''

''You aren't supposed to pick the elder wand up without any protection. It gets cranky.'' Bella explains. ''Do you want it, my lord?''

''Sure.'' Voldemort says, thinking still about how purebloods continue to simply know things better than him just because they've grown up in the world. He coats his hand with the same spell and when he takes the wand there's no hissing.

Huh.

He uncoats it.

_ Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. _

Coats it.

Silence.

''This is a genius spell.'' Voldemort says. It makes sense how Albus Dumbledore could have survived using it for so long.

Bella nods. She eyes the door, eyes her wristwatch, and asks him if he's going to be sleeping over or if he'll be returning to Hogwarts.

''I wouldn't want to impose.'' Voldemort stands up to leave and Bella nods, saying that he wouldn't be imposing, but she keeps glancing to the door like she's expecting someone and Voldemort really has no time to pry.

''Have a nice weekend, my lord!'' Bella says as she's shutting the door to her apartment in his amused face.


	14. Chapter 14

Lord Voldemort doesn't know when he's become a procrastinator, but he blames the horcruxes on that development because it seems easier than coming to terms with other things that loom above him. Instead or researching a way to help his 'illness' from escalating, he goes into the Hogwarts library and spends an entire Saturday evening searching out photographs of Gellert Grindelwald during the war. First he finds his expulsion notice from Durmstrang in which he has a wand that is definitely not the one Voldemort is holding in his protected hand. He uncoats it and it hisses, urging him to use it, to abuse with it - he coats the protective spell over and it's silent. He'll never get tired of that.

While he's at it he tries to find some photographs of Albus Dumbledore before 1945. He finds a photograph from a Hogwarts yearbook. Conveniently enough, the black and white photograph is from the duelling club so Voldemort sees Albus Dumbledore's wand in full action. No, it is definitely not the wand in his arm. Uncoats. Hisses. Coats. Silence. Voldemort looks at it like a giddy child looks at a brand new toy and he dips into a pool of joy whenever he realises that he has a Hallow in his grasp.

Hogwarts is full of new things. He's been gone a day and already there's so much that he's missed. Apparently Snape's been attacked by Peeves and the man is still trying to wash out the pink from his hair. The Bloody Baron has been shouted at by the Grey Lady in front of the entire student body. The red, they say, is from the mortification and not the blood. A few dozen magizoologist visit Hogwarts. No acromantula survive. Newt Scamander sends a howler that is redirected back to sender. Minerva McGonagall has to fight, again, for Hagrid to remain at Hogwarts grounds. Iris Selwyn duels Alex Jones and loses spectacularly.

''Why?'' Voldemort asks the one telling him these juicy pieces of gossip. Pince is grinning and sliding up her falling glasses.

''Because of sexual tension.''

''Delusional.'' The Locket says. Voldemort blinks. Pince looks wholly serious.

Moaning Myrtle isn't anywhere to be seen. Pince looks at Voldemort and admits to never liking that piece of nasty work. ''Good riddance to her.''

Pince, Voldemort muses, would be a good acquaintance of Tom Riddle's. Both of them love the library, both of them are scholars. Both of them love collecting information and sharing it.

''Tell me more.'' Voldemort instead says and her eyes  _ spark _ . He's forgotten how easy it is to manipulate women into doing what he wants. Hepzibah Smith's unaware visage flings into the forefront of his mind.

Pince goes on. Salazar Slytherin's portrait has resurfaced after nine hundred years. These are rumours that whilst sound interesting don't feed into his curiosity as much as people think. Helga Hufflepuff's portrait is speaking english. Not ye old english.  _ Proper  _ english. Apparently she's never spoken a lick of it until now.

''Godric Gryffindor's portrait has gone into hiding, however. Rowena Ravenclaw keeps  _ jumping _ .'' Pince scowls at the indignity of such a manner. ''You would think a Founder had more grace.''

''Jumping?''

''She keeps stalking through Hogwarts portraits! The Founder is being very rude, might I add! Ravenclaw won't speak to anybody.''

The Locket smiles peculiarly at this. ''I wonder if she's searching for the diadem.''

Voldemort's face goes dark at the prospect.

Hogwarts is  _ changing _ .

The magic feels different than it ever has. There's a giant shift. A change in Headmaster, a change in the students, a change in the Founder's child, and the change in the bones of the castle itself.

It's a good change, Voldemort thinks. He continues listening to Pince and laughs at her jokes because that's what she wants to hear. To her he offers just an ear to lend sometimes and in that span of time, Pince has already told him everything he's ever wanted to know. Not a bad trade, at all.

Shacklebolt's managed to get herself another detention. This time with Flitwick. Disruption in class.

"At least more people are starting to realize what a menace this girl is." Voldemort says.

Pince nods. Then she rolls her eyes in a manner that does not befit a scholar librarian like herself.

Those delinquent Slytherins are tailing Nott and apologising every other sentence. Voldemort scowls at that. Pince sympathizes. They are Slytherins of a different era and the young have no idea what power and conduct is. ''I expected more from a Burke.'' she says at the same time he says the same with Avery.

Pince blinks vulture-like at his sentence. ''Zephyr Avery is a quick shot.'' she says and leaves him to pick apart her many meanings. The Locket is infuriated. Voldemort doesn't mind the banter.

He's leaning over the librarian's front desk and speaking to her warmly. She's leaning forward in her chair and telling him even the things he doesn't even know to ask. The locket underneath his robes does not burn because it is the same soul, but it is uncomfortable. Because the Locket is an uncomfortable revolutionary just thrown into war. He is Ares, gloating, goading, full of bloodlust. While Voldemort is the fragmented soul afterwards, victorious but  _ lost _ .

It is disconcerting to know that an object has MORE of his soul inside it than his own body does.

"The Grindelwald wars are in that section over there." Pince points out and Voldemort thanks her, smiles at her, and doesn't care about her blush. It's useful, but that's all Pince as a whole is to him.

The Locket steams. Keeps telling him that these absurd projects are delusions. Voldemort doesn't deny this. He just continues reading books that detail the exploits of the elder wand. Uncoats. Hisses. Coats. Silence.

''How did Bella know?'' He wonders from the restricted section that greets him like an old friend. ''I haven't found a single source for the spell.''

''The Black library continues to baffle us all.'' Locket answers back as it leans against a shelf of books.  _ That  _ shelf of books. Voldemort peruses it from top to bottom and can't find the book he's used to create the horcruxes with. Taken out of school. Which is a good idea as a whole because if he's found it other children might have.

''I want to go in there.'' Voldemort whispers, meaning the Black's vast library. ''I want to read everything that they have.''

''I think it's been warded against halfbloods.'' Locket says and reminds him that this is the Blacks they're talking about.

''Yes, it probably has.'' Voldemort dejectedly says and puts back the books in the pristine order which he's found them in else Pince bar him from the library. She may just have enough nerve to succeed there. The elder wand he puts in his robe pocket. As long as his skin doesn't touch it its voice is not heard.

Minerva McGonagall waits for him when he leaves the library. He halts in her path, feeling like a schoolboy caught by a headmistress after hours. Stacks of books in his arms and another stack levitating behind him.

The Locket looks at Minerva and announces: "Time has been unkind to her." then more offended for all of their regards. "You, as well. How could you let yourself go this much? We are Lord Voldemort!" That isn't exactly how it works, but Voldemort is too tired to debate with a larger piece of his soul.

Voldemort ignores the Locket, feeling somewhat stabilized by its presence. This, however, is not how life is meant to be lived.

But it can be. That's the most important part in all of this right now. That it can. That he  _ can  _ continue living.

"Might I ask you something, Headmistress?"

The Locket who is a part of him scoffs. "No!"

Her cat eyes don't narrow but they do look like suspicious slits whenever she meets his equally abhuman eyes. "I'll allow it."

The Locket is him, yet it's also a detached observer in this so Voldemort does try to take its words into objective consideration. "Minnie the fucking  _ cat _ ? Minnie I pine after a queer man McGonagall? Minnie -"

"Do families from Sacred twenty-eight have a hatred for potatoes?" Voldemort asks because this, too, is another project of his he has tried to uncover. No books speak about it. Pince he isn't going to ask because if he makes a fool of himself all of wizarding Britain would become privy to the pensieve memory she would sell. And he can't write bloody Abraxas because they are in a  _ fight _ ? The Locket at least seems to think so.

''You can't crucio someone and then expect them to still fawn over you. Give him some space. Honestly, crucioing Abraxas. He's like one of Igor's borzois. We're above killing animals.'' Locket says and reminds Voldemort of their time in the orphanage. Billy Stubbs did cry beautifully at the sight of his dead rabbit.

Minerva McGonagall scrunches up her face. She looks at him. Looks. Keeps looking. He takes the time to watch the stunning lines time has graced her with. Age suits her. He thinks.  _ Life _ suits her. It would have been a right shame to kill her.

The Locket is wondering: "Have you used up all of your charm on Pince and now you have no idea how to speak to women with questionable allegiances? What is the  _ matter _ with you? Does Abraxas know?"

Voldemort takes the locket off. The lack of skin-to-skin contact muffles the Locket's words.

"You know…" Minerva says and Voldemort instantly looks up from his glaring at the locket. "Now that you mention it, I can't remember a single time I ever saw one of those uptight schmucks eat one outside of Hogwarts."

Voldemort tosses the locket onto his levitating pile of books and smiles at McGonagall. It isn't the kind of smile he gives his followers, or the kind of smile he indulges Abraxas with, or the kind he uses to manipulate women who crave his attention - no, it's the smile Voldemort has not yet rooted out of himself (not for a lack of trying)

He smiles at her like Tom Riddle would.

Minerva McGonagall doesn't smile back, but she doesn't shrink away from him. Her heart beats in a steady pace. Her form is rigid and prim as it should be. She stands in his wake like a stone blocking his path, without ever thinking to budge anymore.

''What kind of conspiracy have we stumbled upon, Headmistress?'' Voldemort stands beside her and she doesn't move away from him, accepting his challenge. How he loves proud people, they're most entertaining. Pride dictates bravery and bravery dictates entertainment.

''I bet,'' Minerva whispers as they walk side by side to their rooms. Both the Headmistress' suite and the Defence professor's rooms are in the Ravenclaw wing, ''that their main reason is because it's a common food. Too common for their pure of blood sensibilities.''

''That's a good thought.'' Voldemort whispers and it's just the two of them in a corridor full of sleeping tapestries and empty suits of armour. Illuminated by the shifting light of the moon through stained glass mosaics of mermaids and wizards. His eyes glow faintly from dark magic and all cat eyes glow. The connection an animagus has with their animal form has not yet been studied in full. Voldemort wonders if Minerva McGonagall cares that transfiguration has torn her from humanity in a much subtler way than his dark magic has done to him.

''Although, as someone who has mingled with these people for decades, allow me to shed some light onto the matter and say that it isn't because it's common, esteemed Headmistress.'' He waits and she waits and once her attention solely rest on him does he continue. ''Instead I propose that they think the food is  _ cursed _ .''

''Cursed you say?'' Minerva McGonagall makes a faux-gasp. Her gaze is straight ahead and her feet move mechanically. ''How diabolical. I bet you're going to say that the  _ muggleborns  _ cursed all of the potatoes.''

''Naturally.'' Voldemort nods ardently and continues in a serious tone of voice. ''Muggles are farmers and their children are the ones cursing the food and distributing it to proper witches and wizards. This is all an attempt to poison them. The real muggleborn agenda.''

''Have we finally found out the  _ true  _ reason why purebloods hate muggleborns, professor?'' Minerva's lips quirk in a smile, but her words halt him physically.

When she turns around she catches him shaking in a silent laugh.

''Try for some control, professor.'' Minerva remains stone-cold, but he can see cracks lining that facade. That no matter how much she may hate him Voldemort prides himself on his charm and charisma.

''What if that is an  _ actual  _ thing that is kept within the families?'' Voldemort wonders. The absurdity strikes him harder than the ice does now that he's without the locket. Hogwarts helps. He repeats constantly and tries to delude himself.

Minerva McGonagall closes her eyes and sighs a sigh of a woman that isn't ready for the implications of this hypothetical situation being real, less than she's ready to admit to tolerating his presence just a bit more easily than before that night that shan't be mentioned.

''I hope,'' the woman scoffs a laugh to match his silent one, ''for the  _ elite's  _ sake that it isn't.''

''I've thought of something even worse.'' Voldemort adds onto the conversation because it would be a shame for it to end prematurely, not when he's having fun, not now when he's enjoying himself.

Minerva raises her brows in a peculiar way that he likes seeing. It suits her. Everything she does suits her. ''Do tell.'' her voice comes off as intrigued.

''One of the old purebloods just bit into a raw potato, got sick, and said that it's cursed.'' Voldemort reckons it's a Malfoy. It seems like a Malfoy thing to do. Those go-getter blonds look like they get easily talked into trying new things.

''Now  _ that  _ I earnestly believe.'' Minerva McGonagall deadpans.

Voldemort can't help but think about this witch in a way he hasn't thought of anyone in a long time.

Respect, yes, that's what he feels towards her. They've both survived this war and the one before. They both know what it's like to be outcasts. He remembers Minerva's schoolmates not understanding her because of her intensity, only once she's managed to find an outlet for it in quidditch to win matches for her House did they think to take her in. Both of them are halfbloods, too. You're neither here nor there as a halfblood, really.

Listening in on McGonagall's surface thoughts is an interesting thing. Voldemort finds. Everyone's thoughts think about the present and she finds his presence tolerable in a way she hates admitting. This hatred flares and pushes her into remembering why she should hate him. His crimes shuffle through her mind and it's painstakingly obvious by her sudden shifting from his person, finding an excuse to branch off into a different corridor that isn't a shortcut to her room.

Lord Voldemort lets her. ''Good night, Headmistress.'' he jovially says.

Minerva McGonagall doesn't fear him. No, she's moved past that point.

Her curt nod is all she gives him before skidding into the longest path towards her room.

She  _ hates  _ with delicious intensity that he can't help but adore.

And he's frozen over, standing in place, and  _ watching  _ her. Minerva is a genius sight. She truly is.

The locket presses against his flesh and the Locket calls him insane.

Voldemort clutches onto the locket and has enough sanity left to know not to dispute that fact.


	15. Chapter 15

Abraxas Malfoy holds the yew wand of Lord Voldemort in his hand and doesn't send it back via elf or Death Eater. No, he keeps it on himself and  _ waits _ . Waits for that megalomaniac to contact  _ him  _ first.

No matter what kind of wizard Voldemort may be - he can't teach without a wand. It's a crutch all wizards submit to.

He keeps the yew wand exactly where he keeps the diary. Except sometimes he takes the diary in his arms and flips it open and writes. Writes the boy turned man turned fragment that he fell in love with.

_ Don't take it personally. You're useful and we hate it when useful people don't cooperate. It proves that you may not be as useful as we first thought which disbalances our judgement. _

Then it turns from 'we' to 'he' which Abraxas doesn't quite yet understand because they're the same person.

_ He's  _ not  _ well. Locket tells me that he's insane. You're important, Abraxas. Why else would he have given you power? This is a phase. Wait a bit, and then return him the wand. He'll be pleased you've kept it safe. _

Abraxas writes then that Voldemort might crucio him again because he hasn't given the wand back to him post haste.

_ Trust me, _

Abraxas has learned to dread this phrase from his lord.

_ He's doesn't need our wand. Not when he has the elder wand. _

The words melt away and terror seizes Abraxas' chest at this sentence, at the last two words in particular. The elder wand! How in Merlin's name has Voldemort gotten possession of the elder wand? It's impossible.

''Quoi?!''

Abraxas shouts and puts away the diary before it begins draining the life force out of him. Fickle little thing, that one. It's the only one he can communicate with and it's the most malignant. Gives good advice for a sixteen year old trapped within a diary for forty years, all in all.

Once he exits the warded room, Lucius grabs hold of him and tells him that they're late for a meeting. Abraxas mentally prepares himself for the constant barrage of questions related to the whereabouts of Lord Voldemort. He pushes his greying hair in a neat bun and spells it stuck. He can't do anything for his chronic tiredness, and as Lucius keeps pointing out he hasn't any time to get properly ready - so Abraxas Malfoy allows Lucius to disapparate them both to the Ministry.

It's chaos in there. The security has been heightened after the incident with Walburga Black. Another pureblood lost in this war. Abraxas thinks. Not a waste, this one, though. He adds.

Lucius walks side by side with him. He's wearing short sleeved robes to show off his mark. It's so strange for all of the marked Death Eaters to be so openly proud. Before it's been subdued and hidden and only talked about in certain circles. Now it's basically a shame to keep the bit to themselves.

They've won!

Mon Merlin he's starting to detest that phrase, too.

''We need to talk about the werewolves. Greyback said he'd be here, but I doubt it. He can't be accounted for. The man's batty.''

Abraxas smiles at his son's earnest explanations about what the meeting will entail, as if Abraxas doesn't know already. They go inside a room and there's many Death Eaters lined along the long table. The head of it is empty. Abraxas takes his seat there and he hears - actually hears  _ groans _

At Lucius's glare they stifle into coughs. Abraxas' shoulders sag. He feels like a substitute for a class that actually like their real teacher.

The Lestranges are being awfully silent in their one corner. Redmond is keeping an eye on his sons Rodolphus and Rabastan. What a failed batch of wizards that one is. Thoros Nott is looking at moving photographs of his toddler son and showing everybody like he's been only recently born. Give it a  _ rest  _ man. Pettigrew has a parchment roll in front of him to take notes, but otherwise doesn't interact with anybody. The Rosiers and Carrows and Muclibers and Bulstrodes and well- every dark family -  **wait** . They see him as a replacement, and a poor one at that.

Abraxas conducts the meeting in a calm, sophisticated manner. The Death Eaters raise their marked arms to question his resolve for the cause because they're obviously being bullied out of power and influence by the liberals.

''I find it hard to believe that the best course of action is to give creatures rewards? Can't we send them a chicken or bones to gnaw on like good little doggies?'' Bulstrode wickedly grins and riles up the Death Eaters in a mocking laugh.

''The werewolves have helped our cause in many ways during the war.'' Abraxas says in a convincing way. Except he isn't sure whom he's convincing: himself or the restless soldiers.

''Load of good that's done us! Greyback isn't even here. That's how serious he is about all of this nonsense. Lifting the ban on dark creatures isn't going to help anybody.'' Redmond Lestrange pips up for the first time.

Abraxas agrees completely with all of this except he can't just avoid what the MUE has told him to do. These are all formalities, he wishes to tell them, but knows that that's not the kind of man he is. Abraxas commits to his words, even if he doesn't believe in them.

''It is a  _ reward  _ that is happening whether you want it to or not, gentlemen - ''then looks at the Carrow sister and some more women and amends because he really needs to work on his relationship with women ''- and ladies. Let us not forget that Tantalus Nott works at Hogwarts and he's a vampire.''

''He's a  _ pureblood  _ first!'' Thoros Nott defends his disgrace of a cousin. Good. The man's finally looked up from his child's photographs. Abraxas thinks about arranging a playdate with his Theodore and his Draco. All Notts and Malfoys are friends.

''Be that as it may-''

Rosier is telling him that they want to hear from Lord Voldemort.

''How do we know you're doing exactly as our lord has asked of you, Malfoy?''

Roars of acceptance and encouragement sound from the soldiers and politicians and supporters. Abraxas looks just about ready to take out his wand and kill a person - but he's never killed a soul and he isn't going to start now when it's peace time.

''Ask him!'' Abraxas loses his temper and shouts. ''Ask your lord if you do not believe me, Death Eaters!''

Lucius is trying to salvage the situation as best as he can, but it's almost been a year of this kind of talk and fight that it's high-time it bursts into anarchy.

''If our lord were here he'd not allow you to do these types of things, Malfoy.'' Lestrange forewarns and even wags his finger menacingly at him.

Abraxas knows a severing charm would shut him up quite nicely as Redmond would no doubt try to stick his finger back onto his body frantically.

''How do we know he's even at Hogwarts?'' one conspiracy theorist jumps into the frey. ''Maybe Malfoy here's holding him somewhere. None of us have seen him since the Ministry Battle!''

''Yes, that's it!''

''Malfoy's a traitor!''

Lucius begins to sweat profusely at these flippant accusations thrown at his father who's remained calm even though he really, really wishes to put these insubordinates in their place.

''Your children have seen him.'' Lucius says. ''How do you explain that?''

''Polyjuice!'' Barty Crouch Jr. shouts. Everyone applauds his ingenuity. ''I have given this a great deal of thought. Infiltrating Hogwarts is  _ easy _ .''

Abraxas, much to the dismay of his principles, really wishes Bellatrix Black is at the meeting with him today. They trust her. Bloody Morgana. Everyone fears her enough to trust her because the alternative is too terrifying to think about. Abraxas wishes he's intimidating, but he isn't. He's just good at politics. Except he's too tired to be good at them now.

After an hour of being undermined Lucius sees that Abraxas is close to cursing someone to death so he calls a quick recess. People are giving him glares and telling him that they're going to investigate this further, Malfoy - and that putrid traitor scum cannot live for long.

The only reason why no one deigns to kill him or crucio him or interrogate him with veritaserum because in the case that they're wrong - which they are - they know to expect a long-lasting, crippling punishment from their lord for the gall of doubting Lord Voldemort's judgement.

"Are you well?" dutifully the son asks because Abraxas is plopping back into a seat nearby and taking his head in his hands because this is too much for him.

The father scowls. "Oh yes.  _ Of course _ . I'm  **dandy** . My entire days are just people yelling at me. I  _ love _ that." Abraxas laughs. It is very forced.

"How is the board?" Abraxas asks his son in order to switch the topic because he is getting a migraine and he needs to lie down, but he has work to be doing and who knew winning would be so exhausting?

"Rather well. McGonagall listens to us and sometimes actually does as we ask her." Lucius describes her like most cat owners describe dealing with cats.

Abraxas cracks a smile. "I tried recruiting her in 1952. She hexed me. I had to go to St. Mungo's."

"Well, father, this is a surprise. You hated Bellatrix Black's being involved and that was in the 70s. You mean to tell me that you went out of your way to ask a woman to help a man's game?"

"Shush, Lucius.'' Abraxas scolds him through a sneer. ''I knew Minerva for years. Slughorn was doing this inter-house communication group when she was a first year and had Tom tutor her in potions. She took to following us Prefects around school because Gryffindors didn't yet appreciate her.''

Lucius furrows his brow at this information. ''And you let her follow you around school like a lost kitten?''

''Well, it did help that she was incredibly smart.'' Abraxas relents. ''Our lord has always liked smart people.''

''When she was a third year and we were seventh years she had the audacity to tell us that this mutually benefitting acquaintanceship must come to an end because she was playing quidditch and hadn't the time for Slytherins anymore. She was so proper even as a prepubescent little snitch."

"I was not aware that you knew each other..." Lucius draws closer, accioing a chair to sit on next to his father. This is news to him.

"Oh yes. Did I never mention this to you?" Abraxas rubs his head.

"No!"

"Well where Myrtle followed us all day every day because she was a stalker, Minnie did it because she was bored and lonely. It was our OWL year so any chance to revise was welcome. Tutoring an outcast Gryffindor was a good route to take."

"Still I fail to see why  _ you  _ like her…"

Abraxas gives his son an exasperated look. "Minerva McGonagall once called me a peacock cunt and to this day I remember the startled laugh that came from Tom as something never to be drawn out again and I thank the gods I managed to catch even a sliver of it. Tom rarely laughs. He has his scoff moments and his silent shakes but he seldom allows himself a full laugh." Abraxas fondly remembers, then remembers what else Tom is capable of, and clenches his hands into tight, rigid fists of unforgiveness.

The recess ends. Three people are missing. Rodolphus Lestrange, Marcus Bulstrode, and Ignatius Rosier.

Thoros and Avery tell him that they've gone to Hogwarts to check the credibility of their lord's leave of absence.

Abraxas laughs. It's a screechy, high peacock caw.

Everyone blinks at this sudden change in atmosphere. Moments ago Abraxas looked ready to kill. Now he laughs merrily and claps like a seal and  **relishes** .

Because nothing good will come from their venture. In fact, Abraxas knows and that's why he feels the onslaught of tears prickling in the corners of his eyes - Lord Voldemort is going to take this badly because this is not only undermining Abraxas Malfoy's jurisdiction but it's also undermining  _ his  _ because  _ he  _ is the one who placed Abraxas in power.

Oh!

Abraxas sits in his chair and forgets about the migraine as this is something too delectable to put aside for the sake of a political meeting. Leaning into his chair he keeps his eyes on the door that will no doubt fill him with a sight to behold.

A good twenty-five minutes later come the dejected, chastised, quiet death eaters. Rosier especially looks like he's close to death. Rodolphus keeps clutching his mark. Bulstrode is very faint and Carrow is easing him into a seat so the man doesn't collapse.

''Gentlemen,'' Abraxas says, smug beyond measure at their pallor and marred forms, ''enlighten us, what has our lord said on the matter you've tried to bring to his attention?''

Thoros smirks. Avery tries to keep out of this, yet he's pleased to find that Abraxas is back to his spiteful, haughty self. Seeing others in pain because of him is the greatest motivator to bettering his spirits.

Rodolphus manages to speak because his companions have taken their punishment like weaklings.

''Our lord has said that we should trust  _ Lord  _ Malfoy's judgement and that if anyone ever thinks to undermine his authority that they go against the wishes of Lord Voldemort, as well. He is trusted by our lord.'' Rodolphus gestures Abraxas, ''Lord Malfoy is most attuned to the wishes and wants of the regime's leader. If anyone has any more questions they're free to take it up with the Dark Lord at Hogwarts.'' Having apparently finished his speech, Rodolphus stumbles into his seat next to Rosier who's obviously been crying very hard moments ago.

Abraxas rises from his chair and grins.

''Now, how about those werewolves?''

Nobody dares defy him.

After the meeting is over Bulstrode staggers painfully towards him to inquire if he can take their lord's wand with him to take to Lord Voldemort.

Abraxas gladly gives the yew wand to Bulstrode and sends him off with a chipper smile.

Once he comes home he finds a letter waiting for him.

_ Abraxas, _

_ Thank you for keeping my wand safe. If I'd known my Death Eaters were being such idiots I'd have done something much earlier. My apologies. If they attempt something similar in the future you have my permission to kill one as an example. Please make sure it's nobody that I might need. Pick someone unnecessary like Bulstrode. _

Abraxas scoffs. Bulstrode is a daft fool who's got money to spend on the regime.

_ My skirmish with the ever screeching Lady Black has left me in need of an unwanted companion. I'll tell you more in the Hogshead. When convenient to you. I don't have any afternoon classes today. Though, Hooch does keep glancing my way and snickering as if she knows something that I don't. You may remember Hooch better than I as she did help coach the Slytherin quidditch team. Honestly, do I have to be surrounded by athletes my entire life? Did I tell you I sit next to her? Well, I do. She keeps making these quidditch puns and expects me to understand them. _

Abraxas clearly sees that Voldemort will never apologise for his actions in St. Mungo's but that he quite obviously wants to move past the incident. Out of convenience no doubt. He sits in his desk and takes out a parchment to write his reply on. But first he continues reading.

_ I would write more, but time is of the essence and I am preparing a test for the sixth years. It is the second week of school, but I need to figure out how much they know. It is not like I'll grade them, though I should probably say that in order to get the most knowledge out of them... Also, Salazar Slytherin's portrait is very merry for a man who's been banished from his own school by what I assume was a grudging colleague. _

_ You were right in assuming all of those years ago that Hufflepuff and Slytherin were lovers that never happened in real life. Their portraits are obnoxiously inseparable. Beatrice was named Helga the first time around. She was an anniversary gift. Can you believe getting a parselmouth a basilisk for a present? It's  _ _ genius _ _ . _

Abraxas shuffles through the many, many pages Voldemort has sent him. He really is losing his mind. Or his self-restraint. Malfoy doesn't know which is worse. The last sentence makes him write the first passage of his reply: ''I am not getting you a basilisk for New Year's.''

_ I hope we meet soon, Abraxas. Your input is always appreciated. _

_ Lord Voldemort _

_ P.S. Potatoes? Too common? Cursed? The Headmistress and I have placed a bet as to why Sacred Twenty-Eight families seem to avoid consuming them. Though, Selwyn says that she eats them regularly because it's Hogwarts and what happens at Hogwarts stays at Hogwarts. Don't keep me waiting. _

Abraxas looks at the post scriptum very hard. He's known Tom Riddle since 1942 when they became tentative partners in crime in order to help Abraxas cheat on his OWLs because he didn't know enough to pass. Trust the prodigy of Hogwarts not to know things about pureblood society even decades after Abraxas has tried integrating him.

''Tom Riddle, you unimaginably frustrating individual.'' Abraxas irritably says.

Dipping his peacock feathered quill into ink, he writes his reply.

_ My lord, it's unfashionable to eat potatoes. They're very cheap. No proper pureblood buys anything that costs less than sixteen sickles. Potatoes are barely sixteen knuts. It's Weasley food. _

A full body shudder slams through Abraxas.

He gives his finished letter to Dobby to hand to Voldemort and goes to find paperwork to finish and sign. They've scheduled a meeting in Hogshead around late afternoon, six-ish. Knowing the exact nature of his lord's, Abraxas gives a rueful smile, the man will be there at fifteen to six.

Abraxas is right, of course.

It's five to six and Lord Voldemort is already sitting in a booth in the far corner and tapping on the table erratically while holding Slytherin's locket in a vice grip in his other hand. There's a glass of firewhisky on his table and Abraxas blinks. His lord doesn't drink alcohol unless he's celebrating something.

A redheaded man that Abraxas flinches at the sight of until his mind adjusts that it's not actually Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore goes to his lord's table, takes the glass, drains it, and says: ''I'm going to get you that espresso, my lord.''

Voldemort gives him a curt nod. The guarded expression shifts into amiability once he spots Abraxas.

Once they're both seated, Voldemort launches into his explanation of the Ministry incident.

''Walburga Black has managed to be a pain in my arse even from beyond the veil.''

''I told you not to recruit her children.'' Abraxas points out and sips his rose wine. Because he can't handle this conversation sober, not at all. Voldemort drinks the espresso because he  _ still  _ can't sleep. Dreamless sleep is an addiction problem that he doesn't care for, at all.

''Have you thought about sleeping with a snake or something?'' Abraxas asks him, twirling the glass of wine in an exquisitely posh fashion. ''Thoros has a pet dog that he's gotten after the war. It helps him, he says.''

''I thought he got that for Theodore to play with?''

''That's what he tells people because he's ashamed.'' Abraxas unabashedly reveals the man's secret and continues to sip his drink. Voldemort is decrepit looking. Like a twig that's being held by magic.

He seems to consider the animal thing genuinely. ''It's worth a try, I suppose.'' Then the wizard tells him of an insistent snake that keeps cutting him off whenever he tries to go to the Forbidden Forest, demanding he take it with him to Hogwarts.

Abraxas nods solemnly. Snakes are like that, he assumes. Peacocks certainly are. Clingy, beautiful birds. Best birds. Abraxas doesn't know why he isn't at home right now in Malfoy Manor reclining in bed with all twenty-five peacocks and thirty-five peahens.

''I'm thinking of ordering more peafowls.''

''Abraxas, please, don't.''

''I want to have one hundred. A good forty-five, fifty-five ratio seems adequate.'' Abraxas says and has decided. Voldemort keeps glancing to his left, as if having dual conversations. It's disturbing. Until he figures out that the vice-like grip on the locket ought to mean something more as that thing is a fragment of a soul.

''How are you, honestly?'' Abraxas asks Voldemort and notices a subtle flicker of anger at being asked that question, but it's subdued quickly enough.

''Not well. I'm searching out a way to reabsorb them, but I'm coming up empty. I've sent word to Bella to scour the Black library from top to bottom.'' Then his gaze turns sharp and clear and Abraxas' breath catches in his throat because he's never truly getting used to that look. ''You can do something for me, Abraxas.''

This is something that Abraxas can respect about him; Voldemort never pretends that he gives people tasks that are unachievable. He reads a person and knows them in-and-out before giving them duties to accomplish for his cause. It is a feat worth lauding and respecting in a leader. Such a shame that that leader has forsaken his talents in pursuit of otiosity masked in layers of wish-fulfilment and teaching.

''I live to serve.'' Abraxas says bitterly. The wine is getting to him. Voldemort doesn't seem to mind. He twitches, very sparsely, from his espresso. Keeps looking to his left. His teeth are clenched in a tight hold that must hurt his head. It would hurt Abraxas.

Before Voldemort can tell him his newest duty Abraxas points a finger at his twitching. ''In these few months have you become agoraphobic, my lord?''

''I beg your pardon?''

''Agoraphobia.'' Abraxas waves his hand imperiously and goes on to explain the word to a man that is a walking dictionary on most occasions. ''Fear of leaving your house, or whatever.''

''I am not agoraphobic.'' Voldemort says, but Abraxas knows him and he notices the tinge of hysteria that coats his words. That's why he scoffs and orders another drink, rose as well because isn't a fool that mixes his drinks. He's simply a gentleman whose tongue loosens under the influence.

The brother of Albus Dumbledore - the goat fucking one - hands him another small bottle of rose wine and scurries away once he sees the blaze of fire in their lord's crimson eyes.

''You are, in a way. Hogwarts helps, yes?''

Voldemort nods.

''See. Any time you're away from the grounds, even while you're so close to them - Hogsmeade is right next to Hogwarts - you're a wreck. Let's not even talk about that episode in the Ministry. I saw the pensives. You were grotesquely disbalanced to allow someone with no battle strategy like Walburga Black to get under your skin like that.'' Abraxas sips his new drink and rolls his eyes at the rapid blinking from his lord that heralds nothing good.

Fuck him. Let's see if he'll crucio him again so he can know to quit.

Voldemort's eyes don't soften but they do lessen in their intensity. Fucking legilimency.

''Do you want me to apologise?'' Voldemort prods at him, not gently at all. His words are laced with mock sympathy that's filled with condescension.

''It wouldn't kill you.'' Abraxas tells him snidely and sips his drink. By this point it's to relax his nerves and mentally prepare him for the cruciatus than it is to get through the conversation.

''No,'' Voldemort says and tops off his espresso in one gulp, ''it wouldn't. Right as bloody always, aren't you?''

''Of course.'' Abraxas doesn't deny it. ''It's why I'm still alive, isn't it?''

''A lot of people that should be dead are alive. Severus Snape is still alive.'' Voldemort shrugs. Abraxas loses his calm composure by snorting into his drink at the mere mention of that horribly adjusted man.

Voldemort gives him a smile. Abraxas can hardly tell the difference between false amusement and genuine mirth anymore. Gods, he's old and he's angry and he's not at all feeling on top of the world anymore.

His exhaustion must show because his ever sickly lord asks him if he should stop drinking. ''It's bad for your health.''

''You know what's bad for your health, Tom?'' Abraxas says before finishing his second drink and ordering a third one.

''What?'' Voldemort is being incredibly calm. It's either the horcrux affecting him or he's planning his revenge in the long run.

''Being a shite.''

Voldemort is staring at him. Abraxas refuses to apologise because the man needs to get called out on his idiotic choices. That's literally all confidants and right-hand men are supposed to do. Are suppose to be able to do!

''How are you going to get home, Abraxas?''

''I'll apparate.'' Abraxas says, hating the shift in topic because it means that their conversation is over even though he does not want it to be.

''You'll splinch yourself apparating like this.'' Voldemort patiently explains.

''I drank two- three glasses of rose wine.'' Abraxas defends himself because the lightweight here is monsieur anagram.

''All of Aberforth's drinks are magically boosted. It is as if you drank six.''

Abraxas nods, conceding. He'll mull over the fact that Tom Riddle is on first name basis with Albus Dumbledore's brother later.

Voldemort is dragging him up and Abraxas wants to not lean on him for support, but he finds himself doing that anyway. It's quite embarrassing. Especially because Voldemort isn't saying anything to him.

''I really don't ask for much.'' Abraxas says to fill the air with something that isn't awkward silence, not knowing that by doing this he's filling it with even more awkwardness.

Voldemort glances up at him. His crimson eyes are so powerful, so rich with meaning and yet - well, they just prove that whole nonsense about him being inhuman enough not to know what love is. It's rather sad, really. Very invalid like.

''Stop pitying me.''

''Oh, it's either this or my unbridled anger… any preference?''

''You in bed.''

'' _ Boo _ . Are you going to apparate us?''

''I'm taking you to Hogwarts, not Malfoy Manor.'' Voldemort says, very defensively, ''It's nearer.''

''No, that's not it.'' Abraxas laughs into the other's ear loudly. ''You just can't handle being away from Hogwarts for long stretches of time. It's,'' Abraxas tries looking at his wristwatch and it's just very...hard...the numbers are dancing...and ''Late. It's  _ late _ .''

''It is eight o'clock on the dot.'' Lord Voldemort says in his crisp and clear Head Boy voice. It's his I'm trying very hard to be posh even though I'm not voice. Abraxas still isn't satisfied with how he sounds like. It just doesn't sound pureblood. They can pretend for decades, for centuries, but the man's tugging along indecent roots wherever he goes.

''I want an apology.''

''I'm sorry.''

''Thank you, even though it's quite obvious you don't mean it.''

''I find it that people just like hearing those words being said to them. They don't care for sincerity.'

Abraxas can't fault that reasoning, especially when it's spot on for him.

''About the elder wand-'' Abraxas starts and Tom looks at him darkly. ''Diary told me. All of them are connected.'' his gaze brightens up. ''What are you going to do with it?''

''I'll keep it nearby.'' Voldemort says in a pleased, mysterious manner, ''Though, I do have something for it planned for November 1st.''

''Samhain?'' Abraxas wonders, dazed.

''The anniversary of our victory. Aren't the statues being unveiled then?''

''Oh right. That, yes.''

''You're so terribly drunk, aren't you?''

''It's humiliating.'' Abraxas agrees. ''I was once capable of holding my own very nicely, and now look at me!'' His yelling completely pushes them off kilter and Abraxas is falling on top of Voldemort down on the grassy mound of Hogwarts' grounds.

''We're in our fifties, Abraxas.'' Tom Riddle says. ''We're bloody… it's the sixth decade of our lives. Of course you're terrible at drinking.''

''You remember the after quidditch parties?'' Abraxas reminisces because that's what drunk old men with grandchildren do, isn't it? ''Walburga Black was the only one that could drink me under the table.''

''I wasn't invited to such pure of blood events.'' Tom Riddle says and Abraxas remembers every time he's laughed at the orphan mudblood of Slytherin guiltlessly.

''Well, we know better now. You're a halflood. Heir of Slytherin.'' Abraxas nods along to his words, giving himself a congratulatory pep-talk. ''You're invited everywhere now, but you choose not to go.''

''I wouldn't have fucking gone to quidditch parties anyway. Stop framing my past as some sob story.'' Voldemort says in an annoyed manner and pulls Abraxas to his feet. They've rested enough on the cold ground.

They totter to Hogwarts in silence that's only sometimes punctuated by Abraxas mumbling in french.

Salazar Slytherin's portrait is very happily cooing Latin poetry to Helga Hufflepuff's blushing portrait.

Abraxas can't bloody believe he's right about them. This just makes his day so much better. He's starting to think that this also may be a part of why Voldemort is taking him on a drunken stroll through Hogwarts.

''You've let Hogwarts invite me in.'' Abraxas dumbly says.

''I have.''

''Why?''

''I think,'' Voldemort says slowly in a low voice, ''that you deserve a reward for your patience with my Death Eaters. Hogwarts should not be barred from anyone, really.''

''Also because it's better if we meet up at Hogwarts - which you cannot live without.''

That's when Voldemort just elbows him in the rib. Abraxas masks his yelp in validated laughter.

The Defence professor's room isn't all that. Abraxas proclaims: ''It's not that bad, but it isn't anything better.''

''Look out that window.'' Tom Riddle points to his window.

Abraxas goes out and sees Hagrid's shack. That's when he really, really starts laughing hard. Voldemort casts a silencing charm on the room.

''Oh this is FATE's sense of humour, all right!'' Abraxas is leaning out the window and Voldemort moves in quick strides to grab the back of his robe in case the man goes to tumble out to pull him out.

''Is this the roof you slept on? In full view of Hagrid?''

''Indeed.'' Voldemort admits and only when able to share his woes to a person does he truly understand how hilarious his life is from an outside perspective. It's unnerving and he allows himself a small laugh.

''You never let your laughs run their course.'' Abraxas tells him in drunken wisdom. At Voldemort's raised brows he explains further. ''You always cut yourself off.''

''Some things aren't that funny, Abraxas.''

''No, no. It's a control thing with you.'' Abraxas lets out a long suffering sigh only a person who's known Tom Riddle for four decades can make. ''Everything boils down to control for you.''

Voldemort doesn't say anything to that, simply leads Abraxas from the window to the bed. Once Abraxas is comfortably lying down Voldemort takes off the locket to set nearby on his corner table, takes off his shoes, and dresses into a sleeping robe to lie down next to him.

''You're a horrible man.'' Abraxas murmurs, but he's drawing Voldemort closer anyway. It's for warmth and presence of being, nothing more. Damned man smells like lavender.

''I never said I wasn't.'' Voldemort admits and pulls a very heavy blanket over them. Abraxas knows the man doesn't take to cold kindly. It's got to be a parselmouth thing. Cold blooded murderer and all.

Abraxas humfs at his own pun and drifts off to sleep. It's quite strange to be sleeping in Hogwarts after such a long time since graduation, but he's too drunk to give it any more thought.

They wake up entangled and Voldemort puts the locket on first thing because it appears that even Hogwarts doesn't quite help anymore.

Abraxas asks him groggily if he can help him with anything. It's easier to forgive and forget because he knows that he expects too much of Voldemort. He has apologised, that Abraxas can't forget.

''I want you to track down Herpo the Foul.'' Voldemort says sleepily and his voice is so …  _ unchiseled _ .

''That is not his real name. I may not be able to find him if he truly doesn't want o be found.''

''I trust you can.''

''I'll try not to misplace your trust.''

''You won't.'' Voldemort calls out from the attached bathroom. He's brushing his teeth and preparing a bath for himself to help wake him up. Abraxas asks through his massive hangover if Voldemort's got any sober-up potions nearby.

''Ask Snape. He's the Potions Master.'' Voldemort answers.

Abraxas resigns himself to a hangover and tries to go back to sleep. It's not like anyone but Voldemort and those he allows can go inside to disturb him anyway.

''Are you going to stay here, then?'' Voldemort calls out.

''Yes.'' Abraxas grumbles.

''All right. Leave when you like.''

Abraxas dozes off for half an hour and wakes when he hears the door click open.

Professor Voldemort is dressed primly for work with class notes in his arms. He fiddles with the locket around his throat and exits.

There's a spring to his step that Abraxas can't say doesn't suit him.


	16. Chapter 16

The two weeks leading up to October 31st are illuminating. Children can be such pains, but sometimes it happens that their ingenuity and lack of forethinking make them too amusing to discount.

For example,

Professor Voldemort is teaching about Thestrals and how to defend yourself from creatures that you can't see when Miss Palmer, sixth year Hufflepuff prefect and rather polite and quiet girl, stands up and sucker punches a boy behind her whom Voldemort vaguely remembers as Zacharius Oberson, sixth year Ravenclaw and very good at Defence.

Oberson falls out of his chair and clutches onto his nose in agony, whispering profanities.

Palmer has taken her seat and resumed writing her notes.

Everyone is staring at him to see what he'll do. Lord Voldemort lacks the bloody context for this.

''Miss Palmer,'' he addresses the girl whom he thought would definitely be Head Girl because of how studious and calm she is, ''stay after class. You, too, Mr. Oberson.''

Oberson is propped up back in his seat and holding his bloody nose in pain.

Voldemort thinks about sending Oberson to the Hospital Wing, but it's just a punch in the nose it's not like anything is broken. He sets it with a spell for him in class. No harm done. He's just yelping like an idiot and muttering  _ bitch  _ under his breath.

Palmer doesn't dignify that with a response and he's really  _ curious _ .

He has to use subtle legilimency to piece together what happened because neither party wants to tell him why Palmer reacted like this. Apparently, Oberson is gropey and has on multiple occasions pestered Palmer.

He gives Palmer detention because violence is never the answer in a classroom, and decides to call Oberson's parents for a conversation. The life out of him  _ drains _ . The Obersons aren't Sacred twenty-eight, but they're purebloods who are devout supporters of his. Voldemort cannot wait to see their reaction when he chews their son out in front of them.

Oh. Lord Voldemort is positively giddy.

The Locket is even amused. At least he's silent during class. Though, children have commented how his gaze tends to stray to spaces that have nobody occupying them. Which has dubbed him Spacey Professor Tyrant. Someone likens him to a cat. It's very… informative as to how a teenage mind associates things.

The Obersons floo first thing. The father is apologetic and wondering if his son's impertinence will have him fired. The mother looks like she'll pull her son's ear out.

''Apologize to our lord, Alexander.'' the father hisses and the mother pulls and Alexander wisps out.

''I'm sorry,  **ow** .''

Lord Voldemort shakes his head and says that he's not the one that needs to be apologized to.

Miss Palmer  _ savours  _ the stumbling apology.

''Hope you can forgive me.'' By this point Alexander Oberson is red in the face from sheer mortification.

Palmer mulls it over for a good minute before decreeing that she accepts the apology, and then at gaining Voldemort's permission, she leaves without another word. Hufflepuffs have always been the forgiving sort, but when pushed - they push back tenfold harder.

Another incident that amuses him is when two students are staging an attack on Peeves. They're first years and they're Gryffindors and they want Peeves to  _ die _ .

He's about to walk past them and mind his own business when Peeves conjures up a cauldron full of red paint that looks like blood. It's a second, ever so brief - before Voldemort realises what's about to happen and he moves out of the way - but Peeves, being a poltergeist and having been pranking people for centuries, anticipates this and Voldemort is covered in red paint from head to toe.

''That's for the Marauders!''

Voldemort doesn't like to say that he joins the students to take down Peeves because of personal reasons, so instead he tells them that this is educational. A how-to tutorial on taking down poltergeists. One Gryffindor has green hair and the other's got silver skin - he fixes his predicament first and then them.

''All right, what do you know about poltergeists?'' Voldemort asks them. He's going to be late to his class, but that's not important. What is, is taking down that bloody idiot.

The first years have no idea.

Voldemort educates them that there's little to be done to him specifically because Peeves has come with Hogwarts. He's a part of the building.

''Fuck.'' One of the gryffindors curses in indignation.

''Shite, you just cursed in front of a teacher!''

Their accents are unmistakably London and that's the only reason why Voldemort doesn't take too many points from each of them. He remembers how hard it was to stop cursing. Tom Riddle had a mouth on him.

''Five points from Gryffindor each.''

''Sorry, professor.''

''No harm done. Now,'' Voldemort takes out his wand and instructs, ''we can't do anything to him. But a  _ ghost  _ can.''

''A ghost?''

''Mhm. Also someone that's been a part of Hogwarts for a very long time.''

''Nearly Headless Nick?''

''Is the least intimidating spirit in this entire castle…'' Voldemort breaks it to the Gryffindors that their ghost isn't all that.

The Slytherin ghost is definitely a better option.

Voldemort taps his wand against the Hogwarts stones and calls out: ''Bloody Baron, ghost of Slytherin, I demand your presence here.''

The Gryffindors are wary of the bloodied ghost that materialized in a few seconds where they are. He looks  _ depressed _ .

''What the -?''

''My Slytherin liege, you have called upon me?'' His voice is so fragile and there's no haughtiness or terrifying horror about the ghost anymore.

''Yes.'' Voldemort says and gestures Peeves. ''Give him hell.''

The Bloody Baron looks at Peeves for a brief moment before taking out his sword and  _ charging _ .

The Gryffindors are in awe. Lord Voldemort languishes in their starry eyed-ness until he realizes he's really late for class.

Voldemort finds his fourth year Hufflepuff - Gryffindor class just about ready to leave because of the infamous fifteen minute rule.

''Get back in there, I'm here!'' Professor Voldemort shouts. They grumble and return to their seats. He's ashamed to admit, but he spends another fifteen minutes explaining how the fifteen academic minute rule is a  _ myth _ . The children look so sad.

The third and sadly not final moment of amusement turns into embarrassment when he's arguing with a fifth year Ravenclaw about spellcasting semantics. He's well informed and all of his reading is fresh when Voldemort's read these books as a teenager and doesn't remember everything as clearly.

''Rowan is better for healing magic.'' Voldemort almost rolls his eyes, but his condescension is well known.

''Actually it's willow, professor.''

''No,'' he snorts. ''It isn't.''

The Ravenclaw is taking out book with dog ears as bookmarks to prove his point.

Damn it. Voldemort begins doubting himself. Nobody who's wrong has that level of self-confidence as this student does. He doesn't yet know everybody's names and he probably won't ever know them.

''See,'' the Ravenclaw points out and Voldemort does sees that he's made a mistake.

Now, normal people would just admit defeat and continue the conversation. Lord Voldemort cannot be wrong, ever. He's supposed to be the smartest person alive. He swears that it wouldn't come to this if the damned Ravenclaw wasn't so fucking  **smug** . Voldemort takes out his wand and quickly casts an obliviate spell to erase this entire conversation from the student's memory.

''Professor Voldemort,'' the Ravenclaw looks around, ''uh, um class is over?''

''It is. Scurry on.''

The Ravenclaw nods and leaves.

The Locket says something that does make Voldemort think.

''We should really visit the Diadem. He's bored.''

''Why can't I tell how my soul pieces are like and you can?''

''You gave up your right to see what your soul is doing when you tore us out of yourself. Your connection is severed, but ours isn't.''

Voldemort nods. He leaves his classroom and bumps into Minerva McGonagall. He finally tells her about the potato business.

''Of course it's because they're  _ cheap _ .'' is her bitter response. They agree that neither party has won and move on their own way.

Selwyn and Jones are arguing about something. Hooch is still mischievously snickering at him.

He finally confronts her about that. ''Madam Hooch, would you care to explain?''

''Quidditch matches start in November.''

''Yes?'' Voldemort prompts.

She realises he has absolutely no idea what she means and laughs even harder. ''Oh! My apologies, I thought you knew. For as long as quidditch has been held at Hogwarts the flying professor has been referring.''

''That's reasonable.'' Lord Voldemort inclines his head in agreement.

''And the assistant referee has  _ always  _ been the Defence professor. I look forward to our working together!'' Hooch slaps him on the back. Voldemort would be appalled if he's not too busy thinking about how little he knows about quidditch.

The Locket is panicking. ''We don't know shite about quidditch. We don't know how much that small ball is even worth! There's goals? There's seven balls? Five? How many balls are there?''

Lord Voldemort smiles in a very forced manner and by ignoring Hooch shuts that conversation off because he's never liked brooms and flying and  _ sport _ .

Merrythought shouts from within Hooch's pocket. ''You're doing it, lad! I believe in you! Some exercise will do you good.'' Hooch fishes out the pocket portrait and sets it on the teacher table. Voldemort stares at his Defence professor for a very long time and agrees to do it because well, Lord Voldemort does not back down from a challenge - ever.

On a bad day when even the locket doesn't help, Voldemort goes out into the Forbidden Forest to track down that snake and bring her back to Hogwarts with him. On his journey he finds the invisibility cloak that thankfully isn't invisible unless used by a magical being. He ought to return this to Minerva McGonagall.

The snake gladly comes with him, only if she acts as his scarf, however.

'' _ Do you want a name?''  _ Voldemort offers to name the snake.

'' _ Depends if I like it.'' _

'' _ Fair. How about -'' _

'' _ Spots.''  _ the snake names herself.

'' _ You  _ ** _want _ ** _ to be called spots?'' _

'' _ I have spots.''  _ this is true. The snake has very lovely spots.

'' _ Spots is so...common.''  _ says I am Lord Voldemort, loather of all things common.

'' _ Spots.'' _

'' _ Fine.'' _

Voldemort has learned that arguing with snakes is never a good idea.

It makes students balk when he tells them what Spots' name is, but they quickly get over it in order to pet and harass Spots who relishes in the attention.

She especially likes Tina Shacklebolt. Spots slips from Voldemort's neck to go and wrap around the girl's neck and hisses:  _ ''Warm. Not cold like you. Peh. Cold as ice.'' _

Voldemort is beyond pleased to have someone other than he notice the ice that isn't imaginary. It sometimes thaws. It sometimes doesn't. He can never know what's happening. The Locket is most curious and thinks that it's definitely a virus of some kind that's attacked him because of his lack of a whole soul.

Shacklebolt says that she had a snake in Austria as a pet. ''Mine was a python.''

''Constrictors are always a joy.''

''Mine was called Monty the Python.''

Voldemort says that that's a nice name. Shacklebolt is sad that he doesn't get her reference. She gives him back Spots and goes to find Lockhart whom he thinks is her boyfriend.

Abraxas is tracking Herpo the Foul to the best of his ability, but he has a nation to run so it's going slow. They've expanded Azkaban for re-educational purposes. The Dementors are giddy. Voldemort remembers going to one and speaking to it in parseltongue (all Dementors know parseltongue).

'' _ Have you ever thought about giving back a person's soul?'' _ He asks because if he can't find a counter for his predicament in books he may ask nature's greatest predators. One dementor runs a pale hand through his hair and ruffles it. Dementors like him because he reminds them of baby dementors who have the same amount of soul energy as he currently possesses. Lord Voldemort doesn't know why dangerous creatures want to mother him, but it's better than if they want to attack him so he keeps his mouth shut on the matter and focuses.

'' _ Soul is sustenance. Why would I wish to give it back?'' _

When phrased like this, Voldemort understands that his question sounds stupid. He shrugs.  _ ''For science? To see if you can?'' _

'' _ Nobody has done this to my knowledge. Dementors rarely give up what is theirs to take. Go along, now. You tire me.'' _

Voldemort apparates to Hogsmeade and sprints into Hogwarts grounds because it's cold. Cripplingly.

Minerva is thankful when he returns her the cloak of invisibility. She dons it and leaves him in the corridor to wonder where she's gone, but it's none of his business and he's too tired most of the time to have the privilege of butting his head in other people's lives.

The crowning incident that happens October 30th 1982 is Tina Shacklebolt's insistence that he's secretly a socialist who's been stifled down by Sacred 28 pureblood idealism and conservative fascism.

Lord Voldemort doesn't even want to begin to understand how she's come from fascist Nazi to secretly socialist - yet he's beyond intrigued. He leaves Spots to do as she pleases and gives Shacklebolt a detention just so she can have her for an hour to hear this mess. The Locket is unamused. Tom Riddle, the orphan mudblood who wants to matter just as much as the rich pampered purebloods, has socialist leanings because everyone goes through a communist phase. Lord Voldemort is a Lord, i.e. not a socialist.

Tina Shacklebolt's writing lines this time. It's a stupid line that Lord Voldemort's thought off the top of his head: I shall not disrupt class.

''I'm a socialist?'' Lord Voldemort prompts. The Locket lingers close to Shacklebolt and says that she's writing in shorthand. Voldemort lets her.

''Why else would you be using a Lenin quote? I mean, sure - it's a decent quote altogether, but it's socialist in nature. At first I found it hilarious why a fascist would be quoting someone that's politically completely different - but then I dug  _ deeper _ .''

Lord Voldemort doesn't stop her even though he's convinced that this child is looking for something that isn't there. It's amusing and the best Saturday evening spent, so far in his tenure, so he lets her go on.

Abraxas has switched to tracking down Herpo the Foul using Hit Wizards. He's burning a hefty hole in his pocket. Though, Malfoy money is endless.

''Your name is Tom Riddle, that much I checked. Your reaction from our previous detentions has tipped me off immensely, however. Sehr gut, Fuhrer.'' the last part is said very ironically. Especially when she gives him the OK sign with her hand.

Voldemort tries very hard not to send an obliviate at the girl. There's still people who know him as Tom Riddle, it's counterproductive and paints him as weak if he flinches away from a name. A dead,  **dead ** name.

''Then I went out of my way to check all of the school records for Tom Riddle. Said it was a history project. Tantalus Nott's still going to those weekly St. Mungo visits so no one checks with him else they'll be forced into listening to one of his RANTS. I have to agree with him. Durmstrang would have expelled those girls, but nepotism is such a beautiful thing here that you guys can't part with it, can you?''

Voldemort blinks at the girl's background check on him. ''How did you come about procuring these records - they're sealed shut.''

''Pince is a very agreeable woman.'' Shacklebolt says without saying anything. Voldemort dips into her mind and sees that she's used an imperius. In Durmstrang they're taught in order for someone to recognize and defend themselves from them. Should he report this? It seems like something he ought to report - but that would make him into a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?

She continues writing. Neither make eye contact, but their magic intertwines. This time she expects it and doesn't flinch away. Her turns into jagged lines that deflect his attempt at overpowering her. How  _ cute _ .

Let her think she's safe. Voldemort grades fifth year essays for his class and scowls because fifteen year olds are idiots. He doesn't remember being such an idiot when he was their age. He was capable of hushing up a murder at fifteen – well, all right –  _ sixteen _ . Fine, he'll let this pass.

''Brilliant NEWT scores. Too much effort in my opinion, but know-it-alls are know-it-alls.'' Shacklebolt teases. Voldemort begins to see the appeal in sharpening this girl. She's still angry to be at Hogwarts, but now that she's let some of her roots out to ground herself, well, she's much more pleasant.

''I suppose your goal in life is to rack up detentions and have teachers think you're an idiot.'' Voldemort drawls because he's never dared let himself be unnoticeable. Purebloods get to be unnoticeable and overlooked. Ambitious orphans don't have such privilege. ''Don't you have plans for after Hogwarts?''

''Of course I do.'' Shacklebolt nods and writes out the one hundredth sentence. Only to be given another hundred. She scowls, but doesn't fight him on it as she continues writing. ''I want to get out of Britain for starters. Then probably track down my best friend who's finished with Durmstrang and we're going to open up a kneazle shop which we'll use to launder money from our lucrative muggleborn smuggling ring when the new regime decides to exterminate all muggleborns.'' It sounds absurd, yet Voldemort doesn't hear a joking inflection which hopes means deadpan, dry humour.

There's silence in the room. Shacklebolt is scribbling. The Locket has the same look in his eyes that Voldemort has when he's first figured out how useful Bellatrix could be.

''You still haven't quite explained why you think I'm a socialist.'' Voldemort shifts back to their initial topic because either Shacklebolt is insane or very, very good at making people think so.

''You're the first of the two sides in the war that started recruiting women. Then, you employed the werewolves. Then vampires. Then Dementors which have never truly aligned themselves with anyone until you came along. Their rights are completely marginalized. It's actually pretty sad to think that you were the progressive side when your followers wanted to bring back feudalism, but with running water.'' Shacklebolt stops writing and stretches out her cramped hand, contouring her face in discomfort whilst doing so. ''So, socialist.''

The Locket is standing very close to Shacklebolt and has his hands clasped together in anticipation of what will come out of her mouth next.

She looks into his eyes finally and divulges. ''The main reason why my parents even moved to Austria was to avoid the Ministry as unrest seemed to just accumulate. Squibs started the war, right? They were rioting for equality when Nobby Leach was killed, but he was killed by magical means. He was the first muggleborn Minister for Magic and his death sent the muggleborns into disarray.''

Abraxas Malfoy killed Nobby Leach in 1968 and plunged them all into war. Lord Voldemort is impressed with the case she's created. There's plenty of things she's gotten wrong, but to interrupt her now would merely cut her wings prematurely.

''But,'' she raises her finger and adds, ''don't think that this excuses all of the murder and hate crimes your side has committed. No. That's inexcusable. You tortured and killed innocent people because they didn't fit in with the predominantly pureblood regiment on your side. This plays into your need for power more than betterment of society. Let the purebloods fight and fund and you'll play along with their prejudice. A halfblood promoting pureblood supremacy makes absolutely no sense at all. Not unless, of course, this is all part of an elaborate plan where you parrot pureblood idealism and mantras like Toujours Pur and Purity always conquers, while in reality you're just trying to get to a position of power. Which sends me machiavellistic vibes and paints you as a utilitarian opportunist.''

The Locket watches Shacklebolt like an interesting puzzle to collect and solve on a later notice.

''Your animosity with Dumbledore has made that side obsolete and unapproachable for you, professor, but it's easier to be on the richer side, isn't it? Purebloods have always held the majority of power. Lead an insurgence, win a war, and now you're on top and most of their bigoted laws are going to be stopped by the MUE and other overseeing political organs? Which doesn't prove a problem to you at all as you don't believe in the power of pure blood as you're one of the most powerful wizards in Europe, perhaps even the world, yet you're a halfblood. Maybe you aren't a clear socialist, but you definitely lean towards it more than any of your pureblood followers. I mean, you're all but an autocratic, president for life anyway, so there you go.'' The girl shrugs in the end as if realizing that maybe she's gone on for too long. Glancing up at the clock in the classroom she sees that it's time she should go.

''Sit.'' Voldemort's voice cuts through the air painfully fast and his magic pushes her back in her seat. Shacklebolt glances his way and there's that insurgence of hatred and anger within her that he remembers from the beginning of September.

The Locket is standing behind Shacklebolt and grinning widely, face contorted in disbelief. It's good to know that the damned horcrux can be rendered speechless.

Lord Voldemort places his elbows on the table and his interlocked fingers over his mouth as his crimson gaze scrutinizes Shacklebolt.

''This is all very amusing, but you presume too much.'' he says and she opens her mouth but he silences her with a wandless flick of the wrist and intent. Intent is actual magic, words and wands help guide, but without intent no magic can be perfectly done.

''I consider myself neither a fascist, a nationalist, nor a socialist.'' then at her curious eyes he amends before she even thinks that inane, inane thought: ''I am  _ not _ a communist. Lenin was smart to take down the aristocracy, but communism is still impracticable because human nature demands selfishness.''

"I am a revolutionary, Miss Shacklebolt." Lord Voldemort teaches. ''It is flattering to see you so hung up about these things, but you can spend your time more purposefully than analyzing my past. Yes, Bellatrix is my right hand, but this does not at all illustrate me as someone who believes everyone is entitled to equal property and rights. No, I do not support Nazism as it is too extreme. I loathe muggles, but it is stupid to think that we can exterminate them all without heinous repercussions to our world. Grindelwald is a broken hearted fool.''

''What  _ do _ you believe in?'' Shacklebolt asks him. ''You've won this long civil war – what now Franco? You're telling us all to be political, yet here you are escaping from it by teaching children.''

Locket then interrupts: ''She's rather dim if she doesn't see we're teaching in order to INFLUENCE children into being the right kind of politically active. This is the most political thing a politician can hope for.'' A low groan of defeat and resignation that there is no hope for the future with this kind of generation there to lead it. ''Good thing we're immortal.''

Lord Voldemort won't discount the possibility of innovation and betterment. There's still hope for her, she just needs guidance. Not his, no – he's too busy. Someone that works in the Ministry and knows it inside out. He'll look into one of his people snatching her up after she graduates in an internship. Plans change in six months.

''Now?'' he smiles. Shacklebolt watches him like a hawk, waiting. ''Now, I get to do what I like.''

''What low, low ambitions we have.'' Locket laments. ''To have once wished for everything and now we find ourselves content with a teaching position at Hogwarts. This girl is right to be confused by you.'' It will never cease to amaze how sometimes the hrocrux distances himself from him, and how sometimes the two are  _ we _ .

Voldemort doesn't say anything to any of Shackelbolt's further questions, simply dismisses her out of hand.

When she leaves and Lord Voldemort is alone with his horcrux' projection, he hisses: ''Hogwarts is  **everything** to us. You are foolish to have forgotten.'' His magic lashes out, more powerful than it has been these past few months. Tendrils of it whip at the younger of the two.

The Hogwarts stones hum a lulling tune of welcome and love. It is the only one Lord Voldemort understands and knows to defend.

The horcrux's form destabilizes and it returns into the locket. It's silent. Just as the elder wand neatly tucked into his pocket with his regular yew wand. Lord Voldemort  _ breathes _ .


	17. Chapter 17

October 31st 1982 is a very exhausting day.

It's a Sunday so there's no classes, but Voldemort isn't happy because he could really do with a distraction. People are unnecessarily emotional and it's making him uncomfortable because it affects him directly. Can't people just mourn in peace? It is Samhain soon!

Snape's emotional distress is being broadcast through the shared bond Voldemort has with all of his Death Eaters. He turns it off post haste because this is no way to wake up. If he sees him in the corridors, Voldemort swears he'll kill him because to cry over a mudblood is unfathomable to him. It's disrespectful to the  _ regime _ . It's disrespectful to the  _ mark _ . It's disrespectful to  _ him _ .

At breakfast Voldemort sips coffee and doesn't eat. Neither Severus Snape nor Minerva McGonagall are anywhere near him this fine morning. Hooch is even silent. Half of the table is in mourning. Someone whispers murderer under their breath at him. He's sure it's Flitwick. This day is difficult for everyone. All of the self-restraint exhibited the past month dwindles when painful memories resurface.

A cat he's sure is Minerva McGonagall almost jumps on his face to claw his eyes out later, but he doesn't do anything because he has no way of  _ knowing.  _ Which frustrates him to no end.

Sybil Trelawney keeps bawling whenever she's in his ear shot. Locket tells him that the woman must be daft or brain damaged to be this hung-up over a few deaths.

''It's my fault, all of it is my fault-'' she screams and is comforted by Pomona Sprout. Voldemort skids into a shortcut to avoid that mess. It's actually rather strange that out of his inner circle the only one who's believed in the Prophecy is he. Abraxas has called it drivel and mentioned that Divination is hogwash. Arithmancy man, that one. Bellatrix has said that the only true Seers are the Fair Folk and that all other seers pale in comparison to accuracy. Thoros Nott's just said that it sounds like a trap orchestrated by a desperate Albus Dumbledore.

Voldemort remembers feeling  **special** . A prophecy all about his luminous self. And some dumb infant brat.

Last year this time Voldemort recalls sitting in on a meeting at Malfoy Manor, full of magic and an unhealthy obsession with killing an old man. He doesn't necessarily think those as the good old days, because war is draining - but he does think them more purposeful.

The day he learns of the prophecy is a slow day.

Thoros Nott, Bellatrix Black, Abraxas Malfoy, Zephyr Avery, and he are at Malfoy Manor relaxing for a change. This is his inner circle and he's still mildly surprised at how good a team they all made.

Abraxas is lounging on a chaise-longue with an advanced mathematics book in his arms that he reads for fun. Voldemort prods into his surface thoughts and sees a blackboard where mind Abraxas is writing the equations and solving them. Peacocks are sitting close to the chaise-longue and sleeping. There's a peahen napping on Abraxas' toned legs. He has the physique of a quidditch player. It's Adonis like.

Bellatrix is yawning. Her hair is tied back in a low bushy bun that she says is to mask her laziness to go and wash her hair. She is playing with her wand and casting spells silently at a vase of flowers that Narcissa says is gaudy. It's pink. Narcissa thinks all pink things are gaudy. Voldemort, knowing Dolores Umbridge, has to agree.

Thoros Nott is checking their finances. It's expensive leading war. Good thing the rich patricians are on his side, then. There's slight exhales and angry mutterings in German. Avery is laughing at him, sitting next to him and looking at Diagon Alley plans and thinking about strategy. Who to kidnap and interrogate next, what are the most useful positions to hit in one of their raids.

Voldemort is sitting on a comfortable chair and thinking. Plotting, really. Albus Dumbledore is an ever thorn in his side that must be eliminated, but they simply lack the resources. The man is powerful. There has to be something to turn the tides of war. For now they appear to be in an undefined armistice because both parties involved in their civil war have exhausted their resources.

''When are you going to marry?'' Abraxas asks Bellatrix because surely when she marries she won't put herself in harm's way. Voldemort thinks about interfering, but Bella has it handled. She shrugs and says that her mother has said that after the war ends. The Malfoy scowls and flips a page to something insanely complicated that Voldemort himself doesn't know how to solve off the top of his head. Mind Abraxas jumps straight into the equation, writing out tangens and sinus diligently and drawing triangles.

''My granddaughter is starting Hogwarts in two years, you know.'' Zephyr chirps. Thoros looks up from his papers and boggles at the man. What a strange thing to announce. Suddenly, too.

''That's nice.'' Thoros replies because he's got the patience of a saint. Or the Ravenclaw riddle knocker. Merlin knows drunken Ravenclaws give the most absurd answers to riddles. He fishes from out of his pocket moving photographs of his baby son.

"This is Theodore. He starts school in eleven years."

Zephyr Avery fishes for photographs of his granddaughter then and the two forget their duties in favour of talking about their progeny.

Voldemort's salvation and inspiration for the continuity of the war comes in the form of a frantic Severus Snape.

The man appears like a deathly spectre garbed in all black into the foyer.

Severus Snape runs and falls to his knees, clutching onto the hem of the Dark Lord's dark crimson robes with tight, shaking fingers. He looks elated in a way that does not befit a decent human being.

''There is word of a prophecy, my lord!''

Voldemort leans down to unclasp the man's hands from his person. ''Rise, Severus.'' He does as bid, the spy turned double agent turned broken mess. ''Speak,'' the Lord commands his servant.

So, Severus Snape speaks.

Bellatrix is listening raptly, her blood boiling with mirth and joy and the thrill of staging an attack. ''The Longbottoms have a child born in late July.'' Her glee is evident. The Longbottoms have always acted as the first line of defence against Bellatrix whenever they would fight the Order. Those two acted as a chilling tag-team, always cool and ready to overpower.

Voldemort smiles at his General indulgently and gives her leave to take them out. ''However,'' his gaze darkens because he knows Bella gets carried away, ''you need someone to ground you. Take Thoros with you.''

Thoros doesn't balk, but he does look pleadingly like a kicked puppy. This is shameful because the man is his age. Voldemort plans on saying something, but doesn't because it simply isn't worth it.

''There is just a small problem that they've probably hidden already.'' Malfoy says. He is peeved not to have heard about the prophecy already. Being the main information brooker, this oversight must be devastating to his pride.

''How do we know this is even  _ real _ ?'' Abraxas stands from his chaise and sets his book down, waking the dazed peafowls. The look he has is absolutely murderous.

Severus looks proud and angry to be put into scrutiny like this. For a twenty-one year old he sure has a mouth on him.

''I'm telling the truth, Lord Malfoy. I overheard the prophecy in the Hogshead - Sybil Trelawney made it while she was on a job interview with Albus Dumbledore. Check my pensieve if you do not believe me.''

Abraxas doesn't.

One pensieve viewing later, he says that it's a valid memory. Unaltered. Bellatrix stands by Voldemort's side while this progresses. Avery and Thoros are talking about how this may be a trap. Avery keeps nodding and saying that it's definitely suspicious.

''When was the last time anyone saw Albus Dumbledore near - let alone  **in** the Hogshead? Aberforth Dumbledore loathes him.'' Avery brings up a very good point. Severus fumes and says that that's what he saw. Voldemort places a hand on his shoulder and tells him that nobody's doubting his report. His shoulders sag in relief, but there's a tension about him that is equally as suspicious.

Thoros nods. ''Not to mention that its credibility as a prophecy cannot even be verified as there aren't any registered Seers or qualified Unspeakables in Britain at the moment.''

''There's one in Ireland…'' Bellatrix interjects. She feels like she has to always contribute else she'll be shuttered off to the curb.

''That, Miss Black, is a changeling. She decided humans were too boring about three  **years ** ago.'' Abraxas fans her away. ''Honestly, why even bother.''

Lord Voldemort doesn't intervene because he's peering at Severus. He seems like he's doing mathematical gymnastics in his head and isn't having as good a time as Abraxas usually does. Then, much to the dismay of every beginner occlumens, he begins to show emotions when the best option is impassiveness.

''Severus,'' his cool voice pierces through the air and the young man whips his head around to face his lord. His expression is loyal - but his surface thoughts which he catches a glimpse of a second are enough for him to discern something very important. ''Do you know another family that fits the description of the prophecy - is there another child?''

The look Severus gives him is that of anguish. Occlumency shields are firmly in place, but he doesn't hide his desperation anymore. ''It was a mistake.'' he whispers, terrified for another and himself. A redhead surfaces when he skims his surface thoughts. Ah.  _ Love _ .

Bellatrix is thinking Severus some sort of traitor and brandishing her wand. Zephyr is quicker, however. Thoros is demanding Severus hand over his wand while they get over this. Abraxas is the only one that's telling them that Severus Snape is not a traitor.

''My boy Lucius wouldn't have vouched for him otherwise.'' Abraxas says, though Voldemort knows for a fact that Abraxas couldn't care less. He just wishes to hear what Severus has to say in his defence and if it's entertaining enough, he'll help him. Most families know that Malfoy's have dealings with the Fair Folk, but Abraxas has inherited all of their viciousness and channelled it into indifference.

Severus falls to his knees  _ again _ and buries his head in Lord Voldemort's robe, begging. ''Please, my lord. Please, spare her. Lily doesn't know what she's doing. I told her not to marry that … that  _ animal _ . She can be loyal to our cause, I know it. Lily Evans is very powerful for a mug - mudblood.  _ Please _ .''

Bellatrix is sneering at him, questioning Severus why he would dare defile their Cause for the sake of some mudblood filth. For the sake of Love? No, the way Bella is speaking about this it's not love at all. This is lust, isn't it? You accept those whom you love, this one wants to change her completely for the sake of his needs. Voldemort doesn't understand love, but he understands the need to possess someone and this fits right into that criteria.

''I shall ask her.'' Lord Voldemort whispers and guides Severus into standing up. Grovelling has appealed to him as a teenager, now that he has been shown power and all its ruminations, it doesn't do anything for him. ''If she is as powerful as you say, perhaps she will see reason and choose what you wish for her.''

Severus' face is covered in tears. He's redder than Voldemort ever remembers seeing him. The young man lunges into a hug that Voldemort is wholly unprepared for. He detests physical contact unless it comes from the very few people he's allowed that unimaginable privilege.

Abraxas Malfoy screech laughs. The peacocks caw because it sounds similarly to how they communicate.

Avery and Thoros are pulling Severus off of him and telling him how that isn't done and that their Lord isn't touched.

Bellatrix, meanwhile, cocks her head to the side and asks him if he needs any assistance because his face, in that moment, is priceless.

''I'm well, thank you.'' Lord Voldemort says in a strained voice and adjusts his robe, sending a fierce glower at Severus who's apologising profusely and begging, yet again, that his mistake just now shouldn't impede their deal.

''Forgive me, my lord!''

''Severus.'' Lord Voldemort orders him. ''Get a hold of yourself.''

* * *

It's an absolute joy to note that Severus has not gotten a hold of himself at all. Lord Voldemort passes by his chambers in the Slytherin common room and hears muffled breakage of things and expensive equipment. Good thing reparo exists.

Rowena Ravenclaw's portrait is reclining in a portrait of two lovers and stealing their grapes with which the woman is supposed to feed the man. Lord Voldemort says hello to her. She waves and continues eating the pale grapes. They look delicious. He wonders if the elves can get him grapes in October. They probably can. They're bloody elves. If an elf can fuck up his horcrux hiding mechanism, then one can get him some grapes to eat on Halloween.

''Lady Ravenclaw, are you cross with me still?'' Lord Voldemort doesn't beat around the bush. It's high-time he catch this founder and ask her why she's jumping about. If in fact she's trying to find the diadem, the reason cannot be anything good for him.

Slowly, Ravenclaw swallows down her grapes and blinks bemusedly at him. ''I do not even  _ think _ about you.'' Rowena Ravenclaw delivers one of the best verbal smackdowns in the last millennia. She's just inferred that he isn't even important enough to sometimes think about. Oh. Now that hurts his egomania.

''You don't wonder about the diadem?'' Lord Voldemort inquires, pride hurt, but determination unfaltering.

''I know where it is.'' Rowena relishes in her grapes. She lets out a small moan. Her English is perfect. Not at all how Helga sounds like. Salazar doesn't even speak English, he just hisses at him in parseltongue.

''I apologise for wasting your time. Good day.'' Voldemort says because he needs to leave post haste because this is humiliating. The man and woman who stare at Rowena and the grapes in hungry pity snicker at him. Damned paintings.

''Take up the Diadem business with my daughter, Voldemort.'' Rowena calls out. Voldemort turns and waits for the woman to finish talking. ''That business is not between us. You have removed Myrtle Warren's spirit from these Halls and with that we are finished.''

Lord Voldemort finds himself nodding to this. ''Thank you.'' he says because it's the polite thing to do and the last thing he wants to do is offend the Co-Founder of Hogwarts.

Rowena dismisses him before he can ask her why she jumps from portrait to portrait. Voldemort knows when not to fight.

He goes to the Great Hall to find children of all ages constructing and charming their clothes into costumes. Jones is adamant that Halloween should be celebrated properly. Selwyn says that this is a night that leads into Samhain and it needs to be revered peacefully. There is no room for parties. Everything should be about  ** _death_ ** .

Jones starts yelling: ''EXTRA CREDIT IN MUGGLE STUDIES AND CANDY FOR EVERYONE THAT MAKES A COSTUME FOR TONIGHT! CANDY!  _ CANDY _ !''

The students begin chanting: ''CANDY! CANDY!''

Selwyn raises her wand to amplify her voice as she shouts: ''SAMHAIN IS A SERIOUS HOLIDAY! I  **WILL** FAIL ANYONE THAT DOESN'T COMPLY WITH THE RULES WE DISCUSSED IN CLASS!''

Jones, at this provocation, brandishes her wand and says that this matter can only be settled in a duel. The students make inarticulate noises like children that are excited often do. Voldemort hides before they drag him into refereeing.

Jones has won before, but Selwyn has her pride on the line. Voldemort is peering from the corner and watching in a subdued, curious fashion. He grips his yew wand and avoids using the elder wand. It's too powerful right now for him.

The Locket is watching the match unfold with distaste. ''They're not even duelling to kill.''

''This is a school.'' Voldemort deadpans. ''They are teachers. Why would they even be duelling to the death?''

''Pureblood dramatics.'' the horcrux replies without deliberation of any kind.

''One of them is muggleborn.'' Voldemort points out.

''That explains it.''

A child passes by him and looks at him oddly to be speaking aloud to himself.

Lord Voldemort keeps the child's stare until it breaks eye contact and scurries off.

A jet of expelliarmus blue shoots from Selwyn's wand. Jones dances out of its way and conjures a dash of fire to shoot at Selwyn's hair. It's quite a light spell, all things considered. Nothing like fiendfyre which Lord Voldemort uses casually. He lights his hand in a blaze of it and it's warm. This, he finds, is the only thing that helps the ice. Fiendfyre always helps.

He's reminded of how it played a key role in the Potter downfall.

* * *

They're all waiting. Nobody likes to wait. Bellatrix least of all. She paces through Malfoy Manor and seethes. Thoros has switched places with Barty Crouch Jr.

''You can't just switch places.'' Lord Voldemort hates when his visions aren't followed through with. He hates last minute changes and is a creature of habit. It's snakelike of him rather.

''My lord  _ please _ .''

''Thoros, I don't  **care** if I'll orphan your son by sending you on this mission, don't cock it up and you'll return to him.''

Ever cautious Thoros is going with Bellatrix to the Longbottom's and that's final. Except they can't go just yet because the strategy is to hit both the Longbottoms and the Potters at the same time so neither family can move.

They're waiting for a traitorous  _ rat _ .

Peter Pettigrew hobbles uncertainly, dropping to his knees and kissing the top of Voldemort's clean shoes. Ever since the practise has started he's become keen to keep them clean so his followers don't get ill by genuflecting.

Abraxas Malfoy doesn't believe in the prophecy still. ''It was made in a bloody tavern during a job interview for the Divination position – it is  _ manipulation _ .''

''She went into a bloody trance.'' Voldemort is too tired of having this conversation.

''I went into trances loads of times when I was addicted to cocaine in the 1960s!'' Abraxas Malfoy shouts. Bellatrix is on edge and holds her wand like she wants to use it on Malfoy.

Thoros is there quickly to tell Abraxas to shut up. Avery is going through the plan the thirtieth time that day. In case something happens – which it won't – it's his job to help Abraxas burn all of the evidence of there being any illegal activity in the Manor.

Peter Pettigrew is close to tears when he betrays his friends. Voldemort can't care less. He's just about ready to depart when Abraxas makes a very compelling argument that halts him.

''What if he's lying?''

''I checked with legilimency.''

''What if he's an occlumens?''

Everyone looks at Peter Pettigrew and thinks that he doesn't look like he's competent at all. However, that may all be a  _ ruse _ .

Lord Voldemort makes a calculation in his head that it's 99% that Peter is telling the truth and that Abraxas is simply complicating things, but that one percent scratches like nails to blackboard.

''Fine.'' Voldemort says and grabs hold of a startled Peter Pettigrew. He levels his crimson eyes with Abraxas' silver and repeats, with most venom he's ever held in his tone.  **''Fine.''**

Godric's Hollow is a beautiful piece of land. Lord Voldemort laments as he lugs around Peter Pettigrew with him. If he's lying, Lord Voldemort can kill Peter Pettigrew as a warning, or he may negotiate – no, nobody would want Peter Pettigrew when they could have him. That makes no bloody sense.

Why is he bringing Peter along then?

To kill him and feel better if he's turned out to have lead him into a trap. Yes, that sounds about right. The killing curse is not unforgivable because it proves that human mortality can be sped up, but because it makes the caster feel soothed. It conditions the caster that killing is rewarding and fulfilling and  _ good _ . The Ministry can't have that. The world can't have that.

Peter shows Lord Voldemort the house where the Potter family is hiding. Just as Voldemort is preparing to cross into the Fidelius space, Pettigrew says something very interesting that halts him.

''I would not recommend close combat with James, my lord.'' the rat shuffles awkwardly.

''Why ever not?'' Lord Voldemort grits his teeth and asks. To doubt his magical prowess is unacceptable. He relays this sentiment to Peter and the rat shakes with fear and corrects himself.

''I only meant to warn you that James is an animagus, my lord. He may use this ability because it grants him the element of surprise.''

Lord Voldemort completely rearranges his entire thought process about that. His initial plan was to go inside the house, kill everyone (ask the mudblood if she wishes to live), and then go home to Malfoy Manor and have some tea. Well, now he can't do the first part. He loathes last minute changes so, so much.

''You recommend long distance?'' Lord Voldemort listens to his followers. It's his one saving grace. In order to win a war he must first listen to the people fighting it.

Peter profusely nods. He doesn't pretend that his cowardice does not play into his decision making. Rats want to live at all costs. Voldemort respects that. He, too, wants to live at all costs.

''What animal is he? Surely if it's something similar to your form there is no need for such … measures.'' Voldemort makes a face at the last word.

''James is a stag, my lord.''

The very first thing that Lord Voldemort envisions is a sneak attack on his person where antlers pierce through his body and mount it unpleasantly and in a humiliating fashion on the animagus' body. He hides his gagging revulsion at the prospect in a cough and a hurried blinking of his crimson eyes. He blinks twice. Twice for  _ NO _ .

Lord Voldemort has a problem where he, being an orphan raised in warren London, has absolutely no idea how to look on the bright side of life. As he has never seen the bright side of life. Hogwarts is just a shade brighter than the usual darkness life sautés for him each night.

''I am not going in there.'' Lord Voldemort gestures the house. He is an unimaginably cautious man who values both his dignity and his life because that is all he has.

Peter nods and asks if there's a change in plans.

''Yes.''

Peter Pettigrew is tasked to go inside the Potter house and animate the parents.

''I don't care what you tell them.''

''Um, my lord, well, all right -''

''I just care that they're out of my way when I go and kill that stupid baby. Lily Evans isn't an animagus is she?'' Lord Voldemort wonders. Peter Pettigrew is an animagus. James Potter is an animagus. It's not that big of a stretch to assume this Lily could be.

''Lily Potter is not an animagus, no. Though, Sirius is, but he shouldn't be there.'' Peter answers awkwardly.

''Sirius Black?'' Voldemort scoffs. ''What is he, a black dog?''

Peter nods, wholly serious.

Silence. One. Two. ''Peter, this night is  _ very _ frustrating.'' Lord Voldemort confesses because Peter is too scared of him to relay this memory to anyone. ''Let's do this. I'll do homenum revelio spells to check where the baby is. You keep James and Lily occupied.''

''My lord, what about Snivelus' – Snape's request?''

''If there's time.'' Lord Voldemort says, deciding already that there won't be any. The man can go find another red head to fawn over. He has too much hanging on this one night to let it all go to waste for a follower's wish. He hasn't indulged Thoros Nott, one of his original Knights of Walpurgis – why in Salazar Slytherin's name should he indulge a mouthy twenty-one year old?

They pass into the Fidelius space at the same time and when it alerts the Potter's that someone's breached their safety net – Peter surges for the door to tell them that it's only him. Lord Voldemort keeps to the shadows and goes around to the back entrance.

He prowls like a panther amidst the darkness. His eyes glow red. The spell reveals a child atop the floor. Voldemort leans back and spots that there's a window to go through. How wonderful.

Lord Voldemort has found many ways of innovating magic. He knows that the only person he can truly rely on is himself. This is why he sees brooms as death machines and unreliable. Magic carpets, too, are fickle things that can cause injury when steered wrong.

He channels his own magic to lift him into the air.

Flying is freedom. It's all about feeling light and  _ right _ that makes it possible. When one grapples with themselves and realises what they want to do – they can make it happen because of magic.

That's why children do wish magic.

Voldemort takes out his wand and casts an alohomora to open the window. They've forgotten to ward the room from attack because of their assuredness that the Fidelius is all they need. How pathetically droll.

The infant sleeps. The halfblood, same as him. He's never believed that it's the Longbottom pureblood child that's prophesied to defeat him. It's a small thing. Has the most acute green eyes Voldemort has ever seen. It begins to cry.

'' _ That'll be Harry, James, I'll go check on him. Peter, the next time you want to drop by – please say something beforehand. Goodness, I thought you might be You-Know-Who.'' _

Lily Potter begins to climb up the stairs. The child cries and flails its hands around. It's such a dependant thing.

Lord Voldemort realises that this will be the first time he's killed a child. Collateral damage does not count. When he kills a whole family he can't help that children were part of it.

Out of curiosity more than anything, or perhaps a bewitchment of sorts that this prophesied equal of his enacts upon him – Lord Voldemort takes the baby in his arms and looks at it oddly. It's still crying. He's propped it on one side so his wand hand can still freely wield the yew wand of his childhood.

Casually, Voldemort places the tip of his yew wand to the child's forehead. The cool touch upsets the small thing even more. It screams.

What does one do to a miserable child? One soothes it.

Lord Voldemort whispers the killing curse like a final lullaby.

Lily Potter opens the door to her son's nursery to find her child dead.

Her gut-wrenching, animalistic, maternal scream tips Peter Pettigrew up and he runs out of the Potter household just as quickly James Potter pushes his feet to move towards his wife.

The killer and the accomplice cross past the Fidelius space at the same time so they only think it is Peter. Lord Voldemort turns around just before they disapparate to cast the fiendfyre curse to devour this lovely, broken home in a blaze.

From the tip of his wand grows a fiery serpent that verges on length with the Hogwarts Basilisk. Peter quivers next to him. Lord Voldemort twists his wand and hisses in parseltongue:  _ ''GO.'' _

Whether it is the snake's hissing that makes Lord Voldemort's magic thrum in contentment, or the screams of a well done night – he simply does not know.

* * *

''Professor V-Voldemort!'' from his reflection breaks him Sinistra Aurora's voice.

''Yes, Professor Sinistra.'' Voldemort answers. ''What is it?''

Sinistra pauses so her next sentence doesn't tumble out half riddled with fearful stutters. Voldemort is a patient man. He can wait.

''You,'' Sinistra breathes carefully and enunciates clearly, ''must help me round up hellions tonight. Jones has no idea what she's done by having the children in costume. It's madness! Madness I tell you!''

Lord Voldemort loves this. He is on board. This is the best distraction he could have ever hoped for.

''I presume I am to stop snogging from occurring, as well?'' he asks because he knows that there's definitely going to be snogging involved with these puberty addled monsters.

''Of course!'' Sinistra Aurora shouts at him and moves past him in quick strides.

Hogwarts hums and points him to trouble.

The Weasley is wearing white and is holding his wand like a sword against a figure garbed all in black.

''NO!'' the girl – because it's a little eleven year old girl's voice beneath the black mask. ''I AM YOUR FATHER!''

The girl swishes her wand in a motion that resembles the severing curse and Voldemort is quick enough to intercede this spell by casting expelliarmus before she maims the boy.

Angry to have her fun cut short, the girl takes off her mask to reveal muggleborn first year Gryffindor Rachel Bloom. Upon seeing who it is that took her wand her facial features let up to accommodate some level of understanding that this is no laughing matter and that she is powerless to have him give her wand back.

Lord Voldemort is all for spells and maiming and torturing your fellow student - but he's never cast something that he doesn't know how to heal!

He spends a good ten minutes telling them how this foolish incident could have left Mr. Weasley without an arm for life. Weasley keeps inching away from him.

''What were you even doing?''

''We were re-enacting the Wars on Stars.'' Mr. Weasley says brightly. Ugh. Muggle loving blood traitors all of these Weasleys. He should have left him maimed.

''It's Star Wars!'' Miss Bloom corrects in exasperation. ''You were a great Luke Skywalker, Bill!'' she adds. Then asks Voldemort if he's ever heard of Star Wars.

Lord Voldemort just takes twenty points from Gryffindor for their foolishness, hands back Bloom her wand, and leaves to make sure these children don't all kill themselves tonight.

There's a boy that's dressed like Bathilda Bagshot. He gives him ten points because the costume is so life-like and well done. Lord Voldemort loves her book: Hogwarts: A History too much not to award an homage in her honour.

''SEE!'' The boy shouts to his friends who don't want to listen. ''I TOLD YOU PEOPLE WOULD RECOGNIZE IT'S BAGSHOT!  **SEE** !''

There's an Abraxas Malfoy. Long blond hair. Peacock feathers acting as robe decoration. Silver charmed eyes.

Lord Voldemort stops to see who this costumed fiend might be. Upon closer inspection it turns out to be Roderick Lestrange who says he needs the muggle studies extra credit because he's failing and dressing up as his politically important godfather seems like the least effort.

Voldemort moves forward. He can't fault that logic. Striding into a corridor brings him to an interesting sight.

_ Aha! _

His first snog of the night.

A tall girl's making out with a nondescript student in an alcove. Voldemort can't quite see who the culprits are, but he knows he's going to be taking points from  _ love _ tonight and this fills him with inexplicable joy.

Slowly he moves towards them because he feels like startling the pair.

The girl's dressed up as Gellert Grindelwald. Her blond hair is tied back in a warrior's pony tail and her uniform is obviously the one the Hungarian general wore.

''All right!'' Voldemort shouts. ''Break it up, Grindelwald.''

Girl Grindelwald breaks up the kiss only for his crimson eyes to fall onto a pair that is equally as crimson as his. His eyes scan the shorter girl's clothes and it's his uniform that he's worn out in battle these past eleven years.

Girl Lord Voldemort – Lady? Voldemort has absolutely no sense or has an unlimited amount of bravery because the next words out of her mouth are: ''For the betterment of the regime international alliances must be made!'' Then she takes Girl Grindelwald's head and plants another kiss straight to her lips.

Lord Voldemort has never been more shocked in his entire life.

He has to sit down on a windowsill.

The girls use this opportunity to burst into a run from him.


	18. Chapter 18

Abraxas Malfoy is running ragged with tasks and pointing people's mistakes out. Lord Voldemort watches him with a fond and sceptical smile on.

Today is the Anniversary. Today is the day their new world order has been established as unprovoked and unchallenged for a whole year. Minerva McGonagall is at Hogwarts and has said that she refuses to be a part of this spectacle. Though, she has allowed him to take the seventh years out of school. Gilderoy Lockhart is among them and he will never forgive himself for giving him a passing grade in defence, if only so he can never look at him. Lord Voldemort has learned the concessions of professors. And they hurt. They hurt his soul far more than his splitting it.

He remains in Malfoy Manor, clutching onto the locket with sheer force, all while the dairy is in his coat pocket, made small enough to fit.

The younger horcrux (the older one technically, as it is the first one?) scrutinizes him and says: ‘’Today is your day. Don’t let it get tits up.’’

Lord Voldemort nods because to talk to himself is just not something that he wants to do. In front of so many people, too. There’s loads of people again. Those make-up girls keep trying to make him look alive again. Ugh. He shudders. Everything is disgusting and terrible and when, a little later, Abraxas forces him to eat something he threatens to throw it up over the man’s own shoes.

‘’I’ll make it worth your while~’’ Abraxas is trying to bribe him with sex. The fiend. It will never work. Hasn’t he learned that by now?

Bellatrix is there and looks as equally as queasy. ‘’I didn’t know the MUE will be there. They’ve not sent the Head of the MUE, obviously. We’re nothing to them. Just a little sheepish island.’’

‘’Sheepish?’’

‘’Well, we do have a lot of sheep.’’

‘’Ah, you meant literally.’’

‘’Yes?’’ Bellatrix is frazzled and when frazzled always literal. ‘’What did _you_ mean?’’

‘’None of you are wearing black because I will be DAMNED if we look like we’ve come away from some dastardly funeral!’’ Abraxas is even more frazzled than both Voldemort and Bellatrix. It’s the stress. The poor thing. Bellatrix wiggles her fingers, glares, and whispers that she wishes even more stress on him. Voldemort indulgently smiles.

‘’Oi, well she’s nice.’’ The Dairy speaks. Sometimes posh English, sometimes their true accent. Cockney isn’t aesthetically pleasing to hear.

Voldemort plays with the Elder Wand and puts it back in his robe pocket.

Bellatrix is wearing gold for victory.

‘’A bit Gryffindor-ish?’’ Bellatrix wonders as she looks at the robe.

Abraxas fixes her with the meanest glare he has ever mustered. Even Voldemort is in awe. ‘’You think people in the world give a hoot about our colour system? We’re impressing THEM now. Not our people. Our people have already been impressed.’’

‘’Who’s _them_?’’

Voldemort shrugs. There’s loads of people they have to impress. He won’t keep track of all of them. He can scarcely remember all of the children he needs to teach.

He is given a purple robe to wear and this is becoming a theme.

‘’Purple is my colour now, is it?’’

‘’If I put you in white people will laugh at us.’’ Abraxas retorts.

‘’Virgin white.’’ Bellatrix snickers. Voldemort slaps her shoulder gently, more as a warning.

‘’Purple is my colour now.’’ Voldemort has adopted purple. ‘’I am going to enact laws that only I can wear this colour.’’

‘’What about the lesbians?’’ Bellatrix inquires.

‘’And the lesbians.’’ He amends.

‘’Here’s your speech.’’ Abraxas procures a piece of parchment and shoves it into Voldemort’s hands. ‘’Don’t add any of that lesbian nonsense in there.’’ Then, looking warningly at Voldemort, Abraxas hisses: ‘’Stick to the script.’’

‘’Of course.’’ Lord Voldemort says and scans the speech briefly.

Once everyone is ready they apparate. Bella side-alongs with Voldemort. Abraxas looks at them and feels a little bit left out, but he’s swept up in a flurry of people talking and demanding and telling him problems that he doesn’t care.

The Ministry of Magic.

That is where the last battle was held. That is, also, where Bellatrix’s statue is. It’s made of black marble, fit for a woman as marvellous as Bella. Voldemort gazes at its imperial design and imposing stature. She sweeps up her wand in a victorious and elated gesture, a promise to all of their enemies that they will fall.

Bellatrix is laughing next to him. She shrugs and whispers: ‘’I can’t believe I’ve actually got a statue.’’

‘’It looks wonderful.’’

‘’Why do you think it’s unveiled?’’ Bellatrix wonders.

‘’COVER IT UP! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE COVERING FELL DOWN – DIDN’T YOU CHARM IT --- IDIOTS!’’ Abraxas Malfoy is having, what some may be bold enough to describe as, a mental breakdown of epic proportions. It’s all culminated to this exact moment. ‘’NO! THE PUNCH! MY BEAUTIFUL PUNCH I WORKED SO HARD ON IT – NO! FIX IT! I DON’T CARE HOW! DON’T TELL ME YOU’LL TRY! _THERE IS NO TRY, ONLY DO_!’’

They’ve come earlier than expected, but there’s already people filling into these grandiose halls. Ministry personnel (Narcissa waves from among them at Bellatrix who waves back), Hogwarts students that have been given leave (seventh years only, thank you very much – Voldemort spots Gilderoy Lockhart and has a sick feeling in his stomach that neither horcrux can help him subside), as well as the MUE’s representatives (among which is a woman whom Bellatrix whispers that she’s heard is a second cousin twice removed three times over from a drunken blood adoption which somehow ends up with a relation of extreme distance to one Gellert Grindelwald)

‘’What did you just say to me?’’ Voldemort is appalled at these family trees purebloods seem to just know off the top of their heads.

‘’It makes sense when you see it in a family tree.’’ Bellatrix admits. She looks around the space, searching someone out specifically. Voldemort smiles and tries to follow along, but he can’t be seeing this right.

Bella is looking at the PRESS.

And he will be damned.

Hear him now.

He will be damned to have Bellatrix in a fifteen metre proximity to one **_Richard Skeeter. _**

Voldemort’s lips pull back in a snarl and the Locket hisses: ‘’Kill him.’’

Richard Skeeter looks at Lord Voldemort and grins with shark teeth of a journalist who has always been and from the looks of it will always remain pointedly against everything Lord Voldemort has ever done.

‘’You can’t be serious.’’ Voldemort whispers to Bellatrix, who looks positively affronted.

‘’You told me to find someone else.’’ Bella snips. ‘’I did.’’

‘’Not _Skeeter_.’’ Voldemort nearly lapses into parseltongue, but he stops himself. ‘’You’re out of your mind. You deserve better than – than that menace.’’

Bellatrix closes her eyes, counts, and opens her eyes. ‘’I like Rita and you can’t tell me shite.’’ Then, at his expression of surprise, she amends, ‘’my lord.’’

‘’No, none of that. _Rita_?’’

Bellatrix points to a figure next to Richard Skeeter. His _daughter_, Rita Skeeter.

‘’Oh.’’ Voldemort happily exclaims. He looks at Bellatrix and smiles: ‘’How wonderful. Good on you.’’ Pats her on the back. ‘’Better than trying to have a go at me.’’

‘’I reckon anyone is better than trying to have a go at you.’’ Bellatrix raises her brows and teases. ‘’It’s been a full year since that catastrophe of a kiss.’’

Voldemort leans down and murmurs so Bella hears him: ‘’Don’t mention that to Skeeter or else he’ll ask us that.’’

Something explodes. For ten years onward nobody will know what exploded in 1982, but they will remember the explosion as one of the grander explosions. With confetti and peacock feathers and an amusement gone terribly wrong. They say that Abraxas Malfoy’s scream of frustration can be heard echoing in the halls of the Ministry for eons to come.

Andromeda, alongside her wary muggleborn husband Ted, and their magical daughter, appears for the ceremony. Voldemort instantly shoves Bellatrix to greet them and hold their attention because to get a photograph of all of them interacting is very, very important.

There’s loads of people that don’t come. They will be visited by Death Eaters to check up as to why they haven’t gone. Voldemort’s said that he really doesn’t mind if people can’t come, as long as they’ve got a reason for it. Then proceeds a debate as to what a good enough reason for missing this out even is. Lord Voldemort remembers saying illness. Abraxas counters, what about the common cold? Lord Voldemort doesn’t know he’s never been sick up until this point. Bellatrix interrupts to call this a lie because she remembers in 1975 how Lord Voldemort suffered from what Bellatrix aptly calls The Sniffles. Lord Voldemort deadpans that he remembers none of this. Abraxas, at this point, is annoyed and yells out that Lord Voldemort doesn’t remember because he fainted at one point from fever and had to be taken care of medically. That puts a damper on their mood. Bella calls Abraxas a wet blanket. Voldemort wholeheartedly agrees.

Those that do come are in important numbers. Among them, like a paragon of living through history, making history, and writing down history – emerges Bathilda Bagshot.

Lord Voldemort thinks that the woman herself may be immortal because she acts like she’s a young witch of 55, instead of the exceedingly larger number that she truly is.

‘’I don’t care. I don’t care anymore.’’ Abraxas has his hair in his hands. The covering keeps falling off of Bellatrix’s statue that he lets it fall off.

Bellatrix moves back from Andromeda for a moment, noticing the confused expressions crossing over her lord’s face.

‘’Where’s mine?’’

And not even a few moments after the question does the statue of Bellatrix Black shift into the jade figure of a powerful Lord Voldemort. This one has a snake coiled around his shoulders and the red marble used on Bellatrix’s mark is used on statue Voldemort’s eyes.

‘’That’s where our tax money is going…’’

‘’Mine’s better.’’ Bellatrix says.

‘’It really is, what is that... Jade?’’

‘’So impractical.’’

‘’Expensive, as well.’’

‘’Really is.’’

‘’I think Abraxas has gone insane and this is a cry for help, Bella.’’

‘’You may be right.’’

Abraxas shuffles forward, grabs Voldemort, and tells him that it’s time for the speech and that he shouldn’t mention that the statues have been unveiled because by dragging their attention from his beautifully written speech people will wonder and see cracks in their organisation.

‘’Don’t worry.’’ Voldemort tells him.

‘’Do you like your statue?’’

‘’I think it’s absolutely lovely.’’ Lord Voldemort lies.

Abraxas melts, too exhausted to tell. He squeezes Voldemort’s arm and says: ‘’Make me proud!’’

There’s thousands of people. Discounting Richard Skeeter who is not a person, but simply a journalist and journalists are hated. The Dairy hisses: ‘’Fucking cunt of a man, that one.’’ The Locket nods, remembering him fiercely from the war and the tabloids the man has run on him: ‘’We’ll kill him after this.’’ The Elder Wand is in one hand and the spell of silence covers it, otherwise it will have no doubt agreed with the horcruxes. In his other hand is Abraxas’ speech.

The MUE’s representatives watch like hawks.

All of his Death Eaters are sitting around and waiting. Avery looks about ready to cry from the sheer joy of seeing his lord. Instead of Lord Malfoy. The Death Eaters turn to glare at Abraxas Malfoy.

Lord Voldemort clears his throat. He casts an amplifying charm on his voice and begins reading: ‘’One year ago, the Battle of the Ministry took place. This was the last place Albus Dumbledore fought. And he did fight — that should never be forgotten. He fought well. He fought with experience. He was a formidable foe in many, many ways. But at his core, he was flawed.’’

He knows better than to show his reaction to this, so he continues with the speech he hasn’t seen up until this moment. ‘’This was a man who initially conspired with Gellert Grindelwald to completely destroy the Statue of Secrecy. These ideas carried on well past Grindelwald’s fall, in the way he ran Hogwarts and handled ties with the Ministry. He threatened the safety of our families with radical ideas and a complete misunderstanding of how to survive in our world. The Days of Dumbledore are over and we can continue to build a new world upon generations of magical tradition.’’ Tradition? The main reason why Voldemort has begun fighting is to avoid tradition and ascend to something better for himself. Besides, a person cannot build something new over the old without implying that the old will completely swallow up the new. It’s juvenile and shows a lack of understanding how the world works. Tradition is not something many present here have, perhaps only the pureblods. Muggleborns have no magical tradition as they’re new and can craft their own, or integrate – but magical tradition has always been and will forever remain a pureblood term.

Lord Voldemort’s insides twist. The Locket sneers. It knows. It rages. ‘’You let them give you this to read? You dare speak like this when you have your own words – our words? This is the speech you want to give – the mark you want to leave? _This_?’’

People mutter amongst themselves. Lord Voldemort dutifully lifts his head up and makes eye contact with the people. But the ice gnaws. The ice rages. His hands shake as he continues to read words that he has asked Abraxas to make, but not these words and not put together like this. It’s pandering, is what this is.

‘’Thankfully, for the past year, we have worked to bring back order in an increasingly disorganized government. There is still much to be done, but we are no longer in such dire straits. As we celebrate the first anniversary of this new world, there are a number of wizards to be thanked.’’ Self-congratulatory snuff. ‘’The MUE have been instrumental in creating our current government. They are close friends and allies, and we fight together to make sure the Wizarding World does not fall into oblivion. To the various members of our new government — The Department of Magical Law Enforcement,’’ Bellatrix gets a small applause, ‘’the governor’s board for Hogwarts,’’ Lucius, then – fantastic, ‘’and so on — we would not be able to function without your talents. And, of course, to my loyal followers over the years, who fought and died--- ‘’ Lord Voldemort abruptly stops. He can’t anymore.

Abraxas is mouthing the text at him, as if he’s forgotten how to read.

Lord Voldemort grows tired of reading words that aren't his. He's exhausted playing puppet to an inexperienced puppeteer. He incinerates the speech with wandless fiendfyre.

Mutters scatter across. Abraxas Malfoy's peacock screech of a disgruntled scream is the most beautiful sound in the whole world.

''I have fought in a war for eleven years for this exact moment of triumph.'' He begins and everyone listens. Not like before. No, these are his words and all of his Death Eaters are leaning forward in their seats. All of the students that have been pulled out of school hear the tone of Professor Voldemort's This Is Important voice and fall silent.

In his hand is the Elder Wand. He tosses it from one hand to the other. Looks at it briefly, wonders about what it means to have this in his possession, and continues onward: ''War is a toxic affair. It siphons away all of your energy and leaves you a husk of a person you are. There are no ideals and principals in war.''

Voldemort looks at the children now, brought here by their parents. He truly gives them a look over and remembers that there are eleven year olds that are the exact same age Voldemort has spent running and hiding and firing off unforgivables. He adjusts his weight accordingly and blinks away a slight hint of fatigue that's rearing its unwanted head. With his free hand he grasps hold of the podium for support and continues: ''So much magical blood has been spilled.'' A pause, to let the words linger. ''Too much.'' He looks to Bellatrix who is standing next to her sister Andromeda and her small daughter. Forced to be here, nonetheless it sends a message for anyone that gets the photograph taken.

''We must work to make up for the magical blood we have spilled on our way to our ascension. All voices shall be heard. Be they pure or not, creature or squib. This is not the time to pick and choose who has the right to exist and who has the right to move up in the world. It is especially because of the limitations of the previous Ministry that this civil war happened.'' Voldemort speaks parseltongue then and the magical snake coiled around Lord Voldemort's statue springs to life, raising its serpentine head to look expectantly at the mass.

Lord Voldemort grins, hurries through the next steps, and admits: ''I am the Heir of Slytherin, one of the founders of Hogwarts. Yet up until recently parselmouths have been labelled as nothing more than dark creatures and illegals. I can go into why this is and how it has everything to do with the socio-economical viewing of what the Sacred Twenty-Eight calls 'disgraced' pureblood families, though perhaps another time.'' His grin is sharp, sharp enough to rupture bone, like the jaws of a snake addled by its own venom.

The Death Eaters are barely remaining seated. They have lopsided grins on their faces. Reverence shines in their eyes. Abraxas Malfoy is nearly fainting with each word spoken off script. He's spent ages on that speech, all for it to be discarded. Voldemort already knows that he will never hear the end of this, but for now he does not care.

He is finally in his element and the Death Eaters couldn't be happier to have their hot-blooded lord back. Their Lord, the one they've followed into war and emerged victorious from. Not a batty professor trapped in a school. Not a weak willed man who lets Abraxas Malfoy do everything and say he's following orders.

''I do not believe in the Statute of Secrecy. It merely festers hatred between the two races of human kind. Purebloods have taken this hatred and wrapped it around themselves never allowing themselves a chance to let anyone from outside of their bubble of power _in_.''

Abraxas sits next to Bellatrix and whispers in horror: ''No. No, he's gone _native_.''

''Native?'' Bellatrix wonders. She knows nothing of a boy in an orphanage who has seen the world tell him time and time again that all he will amount to is a factory worker or a pretty face in Soho – and has said _never_. She knows nothing of a boy with no surname in a world where surnames are key to surviving.

''I refuse this.'' Lord Voldemort speaks and everyone listens. The MUE's representatives look around in bafflement. This is not what they expected. It's laughable, truly. The look of complete confusion on their faces. Delectable even. Voldemort doesn't spend much time analysing this. The fearful ice claws up his throat and he has little time left. Ah, to be constricted by illness – it's the last thing he's ever expected of his life. ''I refuse to let pureblood mania and their noxious culture control Magical Britain.''

Furious scribbling of automatic quills. Richard Skeeter is showing his daughter what a real and professional journalist looks like. The daughter seems to not be paying much attention to this lesson.

''The aspects of their ancient and noble heritage that do not celebrate war and extinction of magical society and its wondrous multiculturalism – these can stay. But this?''

Lord Voldemort finally raises the Elder Wand and photographers take photographs aptly, noting the wand's presence and its curious nature. ''This is the worst aspect of pureblood culture. What I have in my possession is the Elder Wand.''

Gasps. Careful mutters. The MUE is wondering if they're about to witness the new birth of a Grindelwaldian movement. Rest assured, Voldemort thinks, I haven't the time for that nonsense. _I've got papers to grade._

He waves the wand of legend and continues: ''This? This symbol of destruction and chaos which has fuelled blood and carnage for centuries and beyond? I have no room for this type of pureblood heritage in the new world I'm aiming to create. The Hallows have always been a fairy tale – and something that non-purebloods have realised just a single step into the magical world is that fairy tales are filled with danger.''

He looks at the MUE's lead representative. He doesn't remember her name, but he knows she is important. They lock eyes. Crimson and brown.

Lord Voldemort lifts up the wand so everyone sees it. He is tired of being controlled. He is tired of being told what to do. He is tired of being put in the spotlight and forced to speak. After this, Voldemort hopes, nobody will ever ask him to speak.

His tone is calm, but his heart is beating with speeds he has never experienced. Something in the back of his mind is chilled and cold and terrifyingly tense. The Elder Wand doesn't hiss because he hasn't left it unveiled.

''I refuse war. I have grown up during Grindelwald's terror and spent a good portion of my life so far fighting in a civil war that could have been avoided. And I know, for a certain fact, that as long as these symbols of Grindelwald's obsession, and the obsession of so many purebloods before him exists and remain in the world to be found – I know that we will,'' he breathes harder, the ice is there, it's there and it's **burning**, ''I know that all of our actions will be futile, short while, all whilst waiting for another Grindelwald to plunge us into disarray.''

With gentle and cautious movements Lord Voldemort snaps the Elder Wand.

He sets the pieces on fiendfyre

And over the deathly silence has only this to say: ''I do hope you enjoy the punch. I'm told there was an absolute disaster regarding its obtainment.''

Bathilda Bagshot is the first to stand up and applaud. ‘’I have waited for centuries for this. Finally! Someone who actually knows history well enough not to pursue the Hallows!’’ Her applause grows even louder.

Following her lead, dumbstruck, a sea of applause washes over Voldemort.

Around the time when Richard Skeeter comes to ask him a question about a kiss from a year ago is when Lord Voldemort faints. The ice has gotten to him for today. Abraxas springs up and covers the questions and directs everybody towards the festivities.

The statue shifts into Bellatrix.

And Bellatrix’s raucous laughter fills the air. 

‘’Today is a good day!’’

Is the very last thing Voldemort hears that day.


	19. Chapter 19

Lord Voldemort wakes up at Hogwarts, in his room, in his bed – with Abraxas Malfoy snoring next to him. He's above the covers – supposedly keeping watch.

He tries to get up, but he can't because Abraxas is heavier than he looks. Bloody quidditch player. Exercises every day. Eats healthy. Prick who has his life together. Lord Voldemort has been tucked into from all sides so bloody neatly that he struggles to break free.

''Abraxas.''

Abraxas turns around to face him, slowly opening his eyes. ''Hm?''

''Abraxas, get off of the bed. Did you spell this bed?''

''I did.'' He yawns.

''Why have you spelled it?''

''You rolled off and fell once last night. Restless sleeper.''

''Restless?'' Voldemort doesn’t remember much from after the speech to this morning. ''I'm awake now. Let me up.''

Abraxas waves his hand in a flippant gesture and Lord Voldemort feels his magic recede. He pushes the covers off of himself and hurries for the bathroom.

''You have been asleep for fifteen hours.'' Abraxas informs. He stretches on the bed like a lazy peacock and rolls his shoulders to get rid of the cramps.

''I need more horcruxes.'' Voldemort says whilst leaning on a doorframe.

''You need to _make_ more?'' Abraxas dazedly inquires. He doesn't want to believe what he's hearing.

''What? Are you out of your mind, Abraxas? No! I need to find more of them. The Dairy and the Locket aren't enough.''

''What will happen, I fear, when you find them all – and they aren't enough?''

''We will burn that bridge when we get to it.''

Lord Voldemort does not want to think about that moment. It is something truly frightening. An abyss of horror he is afraid of never venturing out of.

He takes the potions Abraxas is keen to watch him take as prescribed, and then he absconds towards teaching. 

Tina Shacklebolt wants to ask questions about yesterday. As does every seventh year. Well, except Gilderoy Lockhart who doesn't have enough of a mental capacity to truly grasp the happenings of yesterday.

Lord Voldemort tells them that they may ask a question as long as they aren't related to: his health (Some hands fall off), his relationship with Bellatrix (even more hands fall off – he needs to do damage control and see what Richard Skeeter has wrought upon them), all for Tina's hand to stand up.

''Yes.''

''Was that really the Elder Wand?''

''Yes, it was.''

''That was pretty bold of you.''

''Thank you.''

''Wasn't a compliment.''

''I know.''

His lesson with the seventh years, as usual, gets derailed and they're talking about life.

''I want to be the next Newt Scamander.'' Roderick Lestrange confesses.

''Ah, you want to look up to authority figures so much that you let them drag you into war that has no place to be fought by you? Exquisite choice.'' Voldemort smiles. He's leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbow on the desk.

''What was that like, anyway?'' Tina inquires. ''Living through WWII?''

''Most of the bombing missed me. I was at Hogwarts. But the summers were ... hard. There was death everywhere. Whether people starved or got killed over food.''

''Barbaric.''

''Not really. It was Woolwich for you.'' Lord Voldemort remembers that there are students here who know where Woolwich is.

''You're from _there_?''

''I passed through.'' Voldemort lies, like a liar.

''But you're from London?''

''Yes.''

''Where from?''

''None of your business. You'll try to find my home during the summer and I don't care for pests.'' Lord Voldemort makes up a believable enough lie.

Roderick Lestrange says he'll ask his godfather and all of them can go search out Professor Voldemort's home together for the summer. ''Who's with me?'' Everyone is. Even smart and cunning Shafiq. Damn it. These children will be the death of him.

Gilderoy Lockhart tells them that with his expertise they will be able to find Professor Voldemort's home in a single day!

''If you manage to find where I live, Mr. Lockhart, I will personally give you a thousand galleons.''

''No fair. We want that incentive, as well.'' They're all arguing about this now.

''Stop it. We are going back to learning.''

And then the clock in the classroom rings and it's the end. _How do they keep doing this to him?_

After a few more classes pass, Voldemort goes to the Great Hall to feast with the professors. They're all looking at him with a dose of fear that hasn't been found before. That before, was fear mixed with hatred. This – this now? It's fear of what to expect. Because they don't know what he's capable of. Up until now all they've believed him to be is a mass-murdering dictator who revels in bloodshed and giving out unfair detentions to students that annoy him.

''You have a letter.'' Minerva shows it. She hands it over from hand to hand until it gets to Voldemort. He looks at it and asks if it's a joke. Minerva shakes her head.

It has to be a joke.

''Europe doesn't know what to make of your exhibit yesterday.'' Minerva speaks.

Lord Voldemort is peering at the letter, willing it to disappear.

''Did you check if it's cursed?''

''It's clean.'' Minerva nods. ''Even Hogwarts allowed its entrance.''

''Hogwarts is a mother that turns a blind eye quite often.''

''Not under my watch.''

Voldemort will not admit it, but this reassures him.

He takes the letter and sends it back to Minerva. ''Why don't you open it, then?''

''Are you joking?'' Minerva will have nothing to do with this letter.

''I'm not opening that letter.'' Voldemort points at it.

''Afraid, are you?''

''It could be a howler.''

''Doesn't quite look like a howler.''

''Open it. I will pay you.''

''No.''

Flitwick inquires what the fuss is even about and why won't the mighty Lord Voldemort open a letter from – He snatches it and pales – Gellert Grindelwald.

''I did not expect, ever, in my lifetime, to get a letter from Gellert Grindelwald.''

''Well, to be fair, you did snap the Elder Wand. The Hallows _are_ his symbol.''

Lord Voldemort looks at the letter in horror. He has no idea what to do. Flitwick goes to return the letter to Voldemort who adamantly says that the letter will remain with the Headmistress.

''I'll open it right now, then.'' Minerva fumes and goes to open it when she hears startled 'no's scattering from the staff present. Neither professor wants to be caught in whatever dark force of sorcery has been embedded in this letter.

''Let's get someone we won't miss to open it?''

Lord Voldmort is proud to say that _Filius Flitwick_ is the first person at the table to whisper: ''How about Gilderoy Lockhart?''

Moments later they have Gilderoy Lockhart opening the letter and reading it aloud without any repercussions. Obviously they've taken him in a private room with Minerva, Voldemort, Bellatrix, and Abraxas.

Gilderoy clears his throat. ''Ahem.''

_Dear Voldemort_

_I shall skip the pleasantries as I have never cared for them. This letter you have my dear aunt to thank for as Bathilda's written me an elated letter about an individual who listens to history and actually doesn't plan on repeating it. Mind you, she has been telling me this for decades. Not about an individual, just a rephrased I told you so letter you British are fond of writing. _

_Destroying the Deathly Hallows is a move that no one will ever forget nor will they forgive you. I am not a threat to you, but you are not without a threat to your person. Beware this Pandora’s box you have opened. _

_If I was out of prison this would be a personally delivered letter, I am Lord Voldemort._

At this Lord Voldemort hisses. Of course he knows. Of course Grindelwald knows. Albus Dumbledore has no doubt confided in their early moments. And when one has a full name of a challenge to dissect in prison, with nothing better to do – one is inclined to do so many things to pass the time. Even tinker with anagrams.

Gilderoy Lockhart stops reading. He peers worriedly at his professor, who motions for him to finish the letter.

_Good luck and sleep well knowing that Albus would have been so delightfully proud of you for destroying the Elder Wand._

_Sincerely,_

_Gellert Grindelwald._

Voldemort doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that Grindelwald has written him, or the fact that he’s made Albus Dumbledore proud.

''That was a letter, all right.'' Bellatrix speaks. She snatches the letter from Lockhart and ushers him away. Naturally, first she obliviates him as these types of conversations cannot be left running in minds of children. Worse! _Teenagers_.

Voldemort nods. That’s all he seems to be able to do. His mind is running fast. Grindelwald has written him. He’s allowed to write people letters? Will he respond?

The Dairy whispers: ‘’This is phenomenal.’’ He’s laughing so hard that he wheezes. ‘’Should we write him to fuck off? I’d write him to fuck off. He’s the reason why I _starved_, that fucker.’’

The Locket is silent and thinking. Voldemort doesn’t know what to make of a silent Locket. Usually he’s the most vocal and bitter of them three.

Minerva looks at Voldemort and even finds it in her to pat his shoulder and say: ''Good effort.''

Voldemort looks up at her and whispers: ''I am not a student.''

''No, you are simply just a very daring professor.''

''I am, am I?'' Voldemort even sounds proud of himself. A _professor_. Ah, that still feels unreal to him. 

Abraxas is snickering. Bellatrix turns to him and inquires what's funny.

Abraxas answers her. ''This entire situation is hilarious to me.’’ To Voldemort, now. ‘’We tried so hard not to paint a target on our backs, and _you've s_inglehandedly pissed off the most apolitical prisoner the world has ever heard of. He's not written a letter since 1945.''

''It was bound to happen.''

''Oh it was, was it? Who ELSE is bound to write you a less kind letter?''

''I just won't leave Hogwarts.''

''Bellatrix, you're on Hogwarts duty. Take care of him.'' Abraxas shows Bellatrix that their lord is in **danger!**

''Am I in danger, though?'' Voldemort inquires.

''Of course you are. You've been threatened.'' Abraxas says.

''Is that new?'' Minerva inquires. She imagines Lord Voldemort has received a plethora of threats in his lifetime.

''Well, for him it isn't.’’ Abraxas answers Minerva and he has forgotten what a presence she is, to command any room she is in. He smiles and inclines his head politely in her direction. She pays it no mind. Or she does, but won't show it. 

He returns to speak to Voldemort. ‘’You get threats often, but it's still urgent for us to make sure you don't get any malignant individuals near you.''

''_All of you_ are malignant individuals.'' Voldemort gestures the mages present. 

Bellatrix is snickering.

‘’Will we reply to the letter?’’ Abraxas wonders.

‘’Absolutely not.’’ Bellatrix firmly puts her foot down on the matter and all three elders look at her inquisitively. She continues at their burning gazes. ‘’It’s…it would be bringing Grindelwald more attention and that’s the very last thing we want.’’

‘’The man still has followers around.’’ Abraxas admits.

Minerva says that she does not believe this. Voldemort sides with her and says that that movement has died.

Bellatrix sides with Abraxas. ‘’They’re calling it Neo Grindelwaldism. It's mostly in pureblood circles. He’s got followers and if word gets out that you’ve received a letter from their cult leader – from a distance – it will end badly. So, we must keep this hushed up. You received no letter from Grindelwald. Who knows?’’

Minerva and Voldemort kind of explain that the staff of Hogwarts knows.

Bellatrix pinches the bridge of her nose and says that she will obliviate them.

‘’The Hallows aren’t only a Grindelwald symbol,’’ Minerva interjects, finding herself among worried individuals who don’t seem to have enemy inclinations towards her anymore, ‘’there is so many people who would like to attack Voldemort for this.’’ She doesn’t even stutter over his name anymore. Voldemort smiles, strangely proud.

‘’What do we do then?’’ Bellatrix inquires. She crosses her arms and watches Voldemort with a keen sense of foreboding stretching in front of them. Something will happen. You can’t destroy a Deathly Hallow without the world sending word. Without _Death_ sending word.

‘’How goes the search for …’’ Voldemort looks expectantly at Abraxas.

Abraxas blinks at Voldemort. Then at Voldemort’s glare it hits him. ‘’Oh, _oh him._ Yes, _no_. Nobody can find him. Herpo the Foul is as good as dead. It would take a miracle to find him.’’

‘’I see.’’ Lord Voldemort says. He speaks to Minerva next. ‘’Dear Headmistress, don’t mind our talks. It doesn’t concern the safety of the student body.’’

‘’That basilisk of yours concerns me.’’ Minerva wants it removed.

Lord Voldemort places a hand across his heart and says that Beatrice has a far greater right to this school than any of them present.

‘’She’s dangerous to the students.’’ Abraxas agrees with Minerva. ‘’If she’s slithering about aimlessly what’s stopping her from just eating a student?’’

‘’Beatrice doesn’t eat students what is wrong with you people…. She has a healthy died of mice and overgrown acromantulas that wander through the back entrance from the Forest.’’

‘’You have a basilisk?’’ Bellatrix is out of the loop for a change.

‘’Yes, he’s got a giant death snake!’’

‘’I’m happy you agree with me, Lord Malfoy.’’

‘’How could I not, Minerva. And please,’’ he winks, diverting from the serious talk, ‘’do call me Abraxas.’’

Lord Voldemort stands up, beckons for Bella to follow him, and says: ‘’Until you two learn to behave properly in company, I will be away.’’

‘’Where are you going?’’ Abraxas questions.

Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix have hurried their steps. On their way out Voldemort simply replies, flippantly: ‘’The Room.’’

Abraxas stops mid word at that answer. Curtly he nods.

Minerva inquires about the room. Abraxas says he’ll tell her all about it if they go out.

The cat looks at the peacock and admits: ‘’I am a bit peckish.’’

Abraxas claps joyfully. ‘’The only good thing about my divorce is that I get to ask you out properly!’’

Minerva narrows her eyes at this man and thinks that she can do so much worse.


	20. Chapter 20

Minerva McGonagall gets asked, quite bluntly: ''Are you wearing that?''

Abraxas is wearing a robe that when light hits it shows an array of colours that Minerva wonders how it's possible a human eye can even fathom, but when they're in a place of shade or darkness it dims into a black, faded tone. He says it's a gift from Voldemort. ''It's from his tailor phase. 1961.'' Abraxas knowingly says.

''That's a good robe if it was made in 1961.'' Minerva can commend the craftsmanship.

''It's really durable.'' Abraxas says.

Once Minerva changes – because Abraxas is adamant about it – they go on a brisk walk to an apparition point. ''I'm taking you out, Minnie, my dear! I'm taking you out on a night of splendour and rhapsody.''

Minerva will humour the man, solely because of their history. There is one, very bright and shining that's been snuffed out by allegiances and war.

''Rhapsody?'' Her lips quirk up in a bemused smile. ''My, do you offer this to every person of interest?'' Minerva will not forget who these people are and how they have gotten to this position. She is an example they've let live.

Seeing Bellatrix in Hogwarts, after being barred, irritates her. But it is the only time Voldemort has forced his claim over the school as a Founder's Child. It speaks of his profound rattlement. Gellert Grindelwald's letter has gotten to him. He both shrugs off the danger he has found himself in while pulling his guard dog Bellatrix closer.

''You're tense.'' Abraxas smiles and notices and doesn't play coy about matters. He's the most overt of snakes. Minerva has found that Abraxas knows how to adjust himself when he is with different people. When he is with his politicians he plays the subdued and venomous serpent, but whilst he's with her or with Voldemort he lets loose and plays the loud and snippy peacock. She doesn't know what to make of it.

''I am. Gellert Grindelwald has threatened a person under my care. As Headmistress it befalls me to protect all inhabitants of Hogwarts.''

''Does it?'' Abraxas muses. They walks through Diagon Alley until a quaint restaurant pops into view. It's called something in French and Minerva has never been one to learn languages, unless she truly has to. They disinterest her.

''Of course it does.'' Minerva scoffs. Abraxas' small smile widens as do his grey eyes spark a lovely colour. He opens the door for Minerva and she thanks him curtly.

Inside, people's gaze lingers.

They see her and remember her side. They see her and remember the Old World. They see her interlock arms with Abraxas Malfoy and think: _Interesting_.

Obviously they're seated imeditaelly. Abraxas tells her he's a regular here. ''I'm forced to work long hours near the Ministry and can't pop back to Malfoy Manor for meals, you see. This is when I've discovered this cute place.''

''Cute, is it?'' Minerva doesn't comment on the gold rails and the beyond-expensive chairs they sit on. As well as the food. She forces herself not to react. Her salary is... vastly undervalued for an endeavour of this calibre. Water seems affordable.

''I'll have the lobster, what will you have?'' Abraxas is shifting through the menu and peering at the wine list, as well.

Minerva sighs. ''You truly like to make people feel cheap, don't you?''

''It's a favourite pastime of mine.'' Abraxas doesn't deny it. He lowers the menu and leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and telling propriety to fuck off. Minerva's eyes widen at the slight grin that shows that this peacock has teeth as sharp as a cat. ''You're very dear to me.''

''You have a funny way of showing that.'' Minerva comments. She watches him over the menu, refusing to let him see her full face. When around Slytherins she always feels on display to them. As if she's wearing her lion's heart on her sleeve.

''You're a difficult woman to woo.'' Abraxas has mistaken Minerva for a peahen and has tried to woo her with his flamboyant feathers.

''You don't say.'' Minerva deadpans.

Abraxas chuckles and flips the menu. ''No, really, what will you have?''

''Fish.'' Minerva sets the menu down and rubs her temples with her hands. Somehow this act reminds her of cats kneading their bed before sleep.

''Exquisite choice for a feline of your stature.'' Abraxas says in an exaggerated posh voice. It looks more that he's imitating Voldemort imitating the neurotic and ancient Blacks. The image alone is enough for Minerva's brows to raise in bafflement. She exhales deeply.

Abraxas orders for them in French. Minerva taps her fingers on the table cloth and asks: ''I did wonder if you had a hand in my staying alive, you know.''

''What with our history?'' Abraxas reminds her. Minerva narrows her eyes and won't voice it. ''I didn't.'' He admits and Minerva nods. ''I had little say in war matters. Besides, if you threw yourself in front of a curse for Dumbledore no one can protect you from that.''

''Albus was-''

''A terrible human being who delighted in hurting others when he himself was hurt. Tom did not have to bear the brunt of Dumbledore's grief for an imprisoned lover. He was a flawed man. Whom you loved. Whom did not love you. If you're about to get hung over queer men, the very least you can do for your own integrity and self-respect is to fall for one that will love you back.''

Minerva scoffs. She knows there's truth in those words, but she shan't debate them with the likes of Abraxas Malfoy. Albus has always been kind to her. Does that make a person good, though?

''Do you remember 1951? Tom was in Albania.'' Abraxas recalls with a faraway look, somewhat blurred by age. ''And I was quite lonely.''

''Yes,'' Minerva does recall. ''You never stopped writing me. Not even after you'd graduated.''

''Slughorn's little inter-house tutoring stint wasn't to promote caring and sharing and unity, dear Minnie. It was to forge connections beyond houses. Tom Riddle found you fascinating. I found him fascinating and tolerated you. Though,'' he smiles and laughs genuinely fondly at the woman sitting in front of him, ''you did grow on me. Like a fungus, truly, but one that I learned to like.''

''Women don't like to be likened to fungi, I've heard.''

''You like it. Look at you, you're smiling.''

''I'm smiling because I don't know how else to react to this nonsense.''

''Boo.'' Abraxas actually booes her. ''You're no fun. I ate _haggis_, Minerva. I actually subjected myself to that gastronomic horror for you.''

''For me? You came to me, _unannounced_, in 1951 and said – I can quote you on this-''

* * *

1951, Minerva's apartment.  
  


Abraxas Malfoy is flinging himself on a sofa and crying. ''Minerva, my life – it is going nowhere. All of my friends are too busy with their families, with wives and beaus. Tom is in Albania. I'm so lonely.'' He spreads on the couch, marking it as his. Minerva is left standing in the living room with an apron tied haphazardly to her. She purses her lips and says, being polite because she's been raised to be like this: ''Would you like to stay for dinner?''

''Oh – how kind of you to offer, Minnie! You're a true friend – not the kind I'm surrounded with.'' Bitterness. ''Those _fiends_.''

Minerva goes back to the kitchen to make herself some haggis, but she already needs to adjust the recipe to make room for an unannounced guest and she really should have stopped answering his letters. Dumbledore, her mentor, has warned her about Abraxas and Tom. But she refuses to believe that they are evil or going down a dark path. Tom Riddle has always just been curious about many magical fields. And Abraxas Malfoy is... at best... a menace. One that's been writing her on and off for years.

''Haven't you got a wife, or something?'' Minerva thinks that she's seen something about a wedding announcement in the Daily Prophet.

''Oh, Antoinette.'' Abraxas scowls. ''She's an absolute bore. I haven't yet married her. We’re having a long engagement because she's sixteen.''

Minerva furrows her brows. If she were a cat her tail would be swishing in angry confusion. ''Aren't you twenty-four?''

''Thus the long engagement until she comes of – what my mother calls – 'child bearing age'.'' Abraxas shudders.

''Don't fancy women much, do you?'' Minerva knows the rumours circulating best friends Malfoy and Riddle. She's seen them be closer than any other pair of friends she's observed or hung around.

''I do.'' Abraxas says. ''I do fancy women. I fancy both men and women, thank you very much. To deprive myself of either sex is heresy and slander. I will not be part of such ill-informed matters.'' Then, raising his head from the sofa to make eye contact with a cooking and busy Minerva. ''What about yourself, dear Minnie? Have you got anyone you fancy?''

Minnie's cheeks redden and the only person that enters her mind is Albus Dumbledore. Luckily she is looking at the haggis and can't have her mind read. ''It's,'' her voice stutters until she meanly tells herself to pull it together, ''it isn't any of your business, Abraxas.''

''I'll tell mine first.'' Abraxas can sense her shyness from a mile away. Not that it's subtle, at all. Minerva minds the food and says that that sounds fair. Where is your Gryffindor courage, she wonders and berates herself. It's just admitting a crush.

Abraxas moves silently until he's in the kitchen and leaning on a doorframe, all while speaking in an airy , dreamy tone of voice. ''Tom is a wonderful man, Minnie. He means the world to me and whilst I know I mean a lot to him,'' he leans forward so the next words are whispered in Minerva's ear, ''I'm self-aware enough to know that my wallet and influence mean a hefty amount more to him.''

''That's terrible.'' Minerva whispers. She's still not making eye contact. Her skin is prickling at the raspy and seductive (no!) voice of Abraxas Malfoy. He inches closer, careful not to make any sudden movements. It's like he's afraid of her clawing his eyes out or something. Minerva doesn't know what to make of these cat comparisons she's making in her head.

''It's life, my dear.'' Abraxas speaks like he's lived eons more than Minerva when it's simply four years. She scoffs at this and when his fingers gently move a strand of hair behind her ear she swirls and pulls up a plate of haggis in his face.

''Dinner is ready.'' She says, mouth wide in an awkward smile.

Abraxas flounders. ''Ah.'' He looks at the haggis and controls his impulses to throw up on sight and smell. ''That's, ah – good. Good. Dinner. Let's do it. Thank you for your hospitality.''

''Yes, dinner.'' Minerva gestures. ''Bloody genius, isn't it?''

''Haggis... I've never eaten it before.''

''You've lived seven years in Scotland and you've never eaten haggis?''

''I've somehow always avoided it.'

* * *

Present

''I nearly died, Minnie. I nearly died!'' Abraxas interrupts Minerva's tale of near-forgotten past.

''The haggis was perfect. You were just a coward. Your taste palette was so French it was to die of shame.''

''To – to die of shame - - haggis is not a gourmet meal, Minerva!''

The waiter has brought their food over. Salads of this and that, to share. Next there is fish and prawns and a lobster. Minerva wonders if they can eat all of this. Alongside this accompanies them red wine so black it must come from a country bordering the Adriatic.

''It was a scandal what we did.'' Minerva swirls her wine in her glass and whispers, her eyes catlike and her words so, so divine. ''Did you ever tell?''

''Not really. It wasn't anyone's business. Did you ever tell?''

''Albus read my mind and knew.''

''Tom did so as well, I'm sure. But he's never mentioned it.''

They clink their glasses. To the Future. Not the kind either of them expected to live in, but a future better than the warren past, anyhow.

* * *

1951  
  
  


Minerva says she hasn't got any dessert ready, but she can apparate out for some ice-cream if Abraxas likes. Her parents have ingrained in her the ability to be hospitable to her dying breath.

''I –'' Abraxas is trying to say something, to get to a word that will change this game of cat and mouse. ''Minnie,'' he pulls himself together and asks, ''would you like to kiss me?''

''Kiss you?'' Minerva turns around, horrified at the forwardness of such a prospect. Though, her heart is beating and dancing in her ribcage with a rhythmic force she is unaccustomed to. Abraxas grins at her table, leaning in a way that when light catches his body it makes it seem ethereal. She blushes.

''If you don't want to you don't have to, my dear girl.'' Abraxas is quick to set her mind at ease, but, Minerva gives him another look over – he doesn't have to do that.

Minerva closes the fridge where she's been trying to salvage what little food she has left to make something for her guest, but she moves now towards said guest.

''I would like to kiss you.'' Minerva whispers, her hands clammy, her heart fast, her daring tenfold bolder. He leans into her touch and she cranes her neck just so.

And, goodness,

She's kissing an _aristocrat_.

When she breaks the kiss she laughs. ''If my parents found out-''

Abraxas grabs her hands in his and whispers, assuring: ''They will never know. You have nothing to fear. This will be our secret.'' With such words in place, Minerva would be a fool not to take advantage of a lonely man in her flat.

* * *

Present  
  
  


''I felt terrible sleeping in your bed. I had to go to a masseuse from Thailand to get the knots out of my back.'' Abraxas complains and waves around a knife made especially for fish.

Minerva is stabbing a salad and putting it on her plate. ''You were not complaining.''

''What kind of idiot complains about the comfort ability of a bed when more pressing and lovely matters were to attend to?'' Abraxas rhetorically asks.

Minerva allows herself an eye-roll. Abraxas brings out the worst in her, truly. She shakes her head at him and eats some of the lobster from his plate. He steals some of her fish, to even out the playing field.

''You married her in 1953.'' Minerva remembers.

''I asked you to marry me in 1952, but you slapped me, hexed me, and told me to never show my sorry face to you.'' Abraxas isn't one to dredge up the past, but this he needs explained. ''We had such a lovely thing going.''

''You asked me to join the cause of Lord Voldemort, swear allegiance to him, and then you asked me to marry you, whilst you were already engaged – to a woman you've never loved nor fancied, I understand – but the way you phrased it was incorrigible and insulting.'' Minerva has little patience for fumbling.

''I got a Troll on that one, didn't I?'' Abraxas does think that that could have been handled better. ''I had to somehow explain you to Tom.''

''How did you explain me to that man?'' Minerva has never been afraid of Tom Riddle. She has been afraid of Lord Voldemort, but as the days pass and she sees him interacting with the children, growing more weary and sick – she finds that her boggart is shifting into something else.

''Tom has a tendency that when he loves someone very much to tell this person to find someone else. His upbringing was a bit ... conservative.'' Abusive is the right word, but this word isn't said in polite company. ''He remembers you from school. We both find it unfortunate that you never went over to our side.''

''I was getting my mastery in Transfiguration.'' Minerva will never admit that she has thought about it before war, thought about going over to these two snakes that have allowed to be followed around by a little lioness.

''I know,'' Abraxas concedes her point, ''you were living your life and treading down a path you'd set for yourself. It was admirable, but still it wounded me. I had Lucius in 1955 and committed myself to a life of family.'' He raises his hands and makes an exaggerated lie, ''The happiest years of my life followed.''

Minerva remembers the Order and knows that all of them are dead. She isn't. She remembers Dumbledore and closes her eyes. It hurts to remember. It hurts to admit that she's always been too afraid of what people would think. Does she regret never siding with Abraxas and the world he's promised her? No. Because it's not the kind of world she has ever wanted, drenched in bigotry and blood prejudice.

''Abraxas,'' he looks up at being called, gives her a lopsided smile that blurs everything together, ''let's talk politics.'' Minerva swipes that smile clean off of his face without even moving. It's a powerful gesture.

She knows what he's offering her now is a second chance, but Minerva McGonagall will be damned if she lets herself love a man responsible for building a world of a pureblood and traditional design. If Voldemort's speech is any indication, she can live in this world. She can help create this world. It's still so young- a fledgling forged from blood and fire.

Abraxas sighs. He drains his glass of wine and asks: ''What do you want to know?''

It's a joy to hear that he will not stifle her interests. A man Minerva has feared Abraxas is would have turned her away from asking more and turned to topics that were safe.

There is nothing safe about this.

They live in a new world with a ruler who has recently just challenged all of magical kind.

''What will happen to the muggleborns?''

''Why is everyone so concerned about them-''

''During the war they were your main targets.''

''Yes, yes –'' Abraxas has obviously been sheltered from war. Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters fight. Abraxas Malfoy funds and plots and schemes. ''We'll just leave them be, honestly. Everyone is too busy scrambling to fight off the halfbloods – now _they're_ pissed at us. Muggleborns won't ascend higher than a secretary job in the Ministry – the days of Nobby Leach are long gone. But the halfbloods, Minerva, I'm fighting them left and right. They're kind of... vocal.''

''Did they try something during the festivities?''

''Oh no. Thank Merlin. I paid them off.''

''With what?''

''I had to tell them that Lord Voldemort is a halfblood. I haven't even told Tom this. He's going to be pissed off at me for sharing this, but I can't. I'm in a position of the most power, but also the most limitations.'' Then, anguished. ''I need _help_.''

And Minerva shrugs. She sips some of her wine. And she offers. ''I could help.''

''You would, truly?''

''I haven't got better things to do. The Headmistress position has always been for appearance's sake.''

''Yes, it really has.'' Abraxas mentions Dippet and Minerva can't believe that man has existed for four hundred years. He regards Minerva carefully. ''Obviously you won't quit. You will be relieved of your duties and appointed a secretary job. It will show that we are still adamant to keep you leashed and – as they say –close to your enemies. We'll give Nott's cousin the Headmaster position. He's still ringing all of our ears off at being attacked by those eleven year old girls.''

''Will I actually do any of this secretary business?''

''Minerva,'' and it's serious when Abraxas speaks her name and not her nickname, ''I will personally fetch you coffee and biscuits and whatever else may cross your mind. I will file your documents. Please,'' he begs, ''rid of me of this responsibility. _I am going insane_.''

Minerva inquires further about the world Abraxas has been told to build.

''Obviously the most power will be held by the marked. And me. Of course.'' Abraxas has only ever been interested in this in order to seize power. Now that he has it he will relish in it, but he will not fall out of power. Never.

''Of course.''

''We're dismantling the wizengamot. Clearing out the old and putting in younger representation. This will be done in December. Narcissa is conducing herself well. She's made a good campaign.''

''Narcissa Malfoy?''

''Nepotism.'' Abraxas shrugs, not the least bit sorry. ''Ah, how painful it is to hear it work.''

''And the creatures?''

''Greyback... '' Minerva wrinkles her nose in disgust as the vile man's actions she remembers solely by hearing his name, Abraxas continues, ''has served us well. Voldemort firmly believes that we have to honour all who have served us during war time. I acknowledge that he is right, but it's weird.''

''Weird?''

''Well, we've given the squibs the right to vote...'' Abraxas procures a step by step plan he, Voldemort, and the team have agreed upon. Minerva cranes her neck to look at it. ''Halfbloods are – oh wow – we really need to placate them or else they're going to riot against us. This speech, yesterday, it's actually calmed them significantly down. Well, it's riled up the entire world and Grindelwald along with it, but at least our British halfbloods won't charge us with spikes when our backs are turned...'' Minerva squints her eyes and Abraxas continues listing off things, ''we're moving the Dementors. Back to their homeland. Which means we have to evacuate a wizarding village not far from that ruddy swamp of theirs – Voldemort actually spent a few years in that swamp, just running away from responsibility and talking to Dementors. It was obscene. Azkaban is going to become a prison – and, from what I gather – it's going to also have a wing for delinquent children? I think it's just a tactic to get the rowdier students to behave – this was Tom's idea.''

Minerva nods. She can see this.

''The dementors don't like Azkaban. But they need to be fed. We can't just let them roam about like they did before Azkaban. They'd eat children. That's the last thing we need right now.''

''All right?''

''We really need to think a bit on that. The only humane thing that keeps popping in my mind is to have suicidal people volunteer their services.''

_''Abraxas_.'' Minerva hisses, outraged.

''I'm trying, Minerva! I am!''

Their date turns so political and they're so heated up by debate that they must go back to Hogwarts to drag Voldemort and Bellatrix from wherever they'd gone and think this through because the balance of their new world order suffers from indecisiveness!

Onward!

Hogwarts is not on fire.

Thankfully.

It is only the Great Hall that is on fire.

Children are rallying into two sides.

Filius Flitwick has been appointed referee and it’s somehow worse to see that staff has been drawn into this debacle.

On one end is Bellatrix Black, waving her wand and saying: ''Bring it on, old man!''

On the other end of the Great Hall is Lord Voldemort, decked out in five distinct knickknacks that by the looks of Abraxas' annoyed eyes are very important. The man of the hour is wearing a locket around his throat, a ring on his finger, a diadem atop his head, has a dairy peeking out of his robe pocket, all whilst holding a cup in his non wand holding hand.

''Lord Voldemort is affronted, General.'' His eyes are the most potent crimson Minerva has ever seen. He looks delirious and high on power. ''You cannot hope to win against my true form, my greatest potential. Truly, you are outmatched. We will be victorious!'' He raises the cup in a victory rally.

Bellatrix sends a hex at him. He dodges, springs up a shield, and fires off two consecutives curses at her.

The children are _cheering_.

No, Minerva is horrified, they're **goading** them on.

She takes her fir wand and without thinking spells both Bellaltrix and Voldemort asleep. Abraxas sprints towards them. ''All right. Nothing to see here!''

Tina Shacklebolt jeers. ''I rather think we've seen our professor in the truest light he's ever let us!'' She laughs. More laughter follows from even more students. There's not a lot of them. Abraxas seems to be counting them and committing faces to memory. He takes out his willow wand and summons a bunch of Death Eaters who arrive in minutes time with brooms and such.

''This anti appariton shite is pissing me off.'' Rabastan says. Rodolphus nods. They turn to Abraxas and wait for orders.

''Obliviate all of these children and the present staff –minus Minerva McGonagall. For them, today has not happened. Am I understood?'' Abraxas' voice leaves no room for argument. The Lestrange brothers nod and tally up everyone they can find.

''You cannot just obliviate us-''Tina's voice is heard. Minerva is honestly proud of this girl for always voicing her thoughts. It's a skill. She doesn't necessarily know how long it will be a skill and when it will become a hindrance, but for now it's commendable.

''I can't obliviate you. I'm faulty with the spell.'' Abraxas says.''This is why I called Rabastan and Rodolphus. They're quite skilled.''

Minerva helps Abraxas levitate Lord Voldmort and Bellatrix Black's bodies.

''I am going to take them to his room and put them in the same bed and watch the chaos that will unfold when they wake up.'' Abraxas has a plan. It is a petty plan. Minerva snort-laughs.


	21. Chapter 21

Bellatrix wakes him up by screaming. It’s one of those screams that are mixed with surprise and absolute fear about what has been done, usually because there is no recollection of the event that has transpired. Lord Voldemort blearily opens his eyes and sees her scrambling to collect her clothes and dress, hiding her naked form and whispering: ’’This can’t be happening. Oh Gods, why NOW?’’

He feels a constriction around his throat, and only needs to blink to see the Locket glaring profusely at him. ’’You are a disappointment.’’

Voldemort rubs a hand across his face to help him wake out from this daze, but a sixteen year old is whispering: ’’You’re going to die, oh you’re going to die. I can see it already.’’ This one has crooked eyes. ’’That’s all you can do.’’ The Ring frantically whispers.

Underneath his pillow is peeking out the Diary. This individual, this soul piece, is glaring. ’’I am at a loss for words.’’ This one reminds him of Mrs. Cole.

A heavy pressure presses from atop his head and Voldemort’s non-ring clad hand goes to tap to see what this is. It is the Diadem, laughing, wheezing, turning around in place, and **screaming**. ’’Ha! You left me in that room to rot and count things. In a hoarder’s nest, you cruel, unintelligent fool! I will serve you no more. My goal in life is to inconvenience you – do you know how many knickknacks and books and forgotten things are in the Room? Do you? One million five hundred thirty-seven thousand and twenty-five!’’

’’How are you sure?’’ Voldemort kicks something underneath his covers with his foot and it’s the Cup. ’’Have you counted them often?’’

’’I’ve done nothing but count! You, you at least had fun things to see – shiny things – tell me, how many dastardly objects could be found in Bellatrix’s vault?’’

The Cup shrugs. ’’I’ve never counted.’’

’’NEVER?’’

’’It seems that our fixation on counting has been left with you.’’ Cup cheerfully chirps.

Lord Voldemort finally focuses on Bellatrix, who is trying to haphazardly get dressed. She is hopping towards the bathroom, now that she’s noticed her lord simply watching her, rendered speechless.

’’We did not have sex, Bella.’’

’’Oh yeah?’’ Bella says that she likes Rita too much to let this be anything than it needs to be. ’’You’ve got Abraxas. Or whoever else you like. I- I liked you. But I don’t anymore, my lord.’’

’’Good.’’ Voldemort knows that because he can sense magic. Much better than before. His eyes are red. He grasps hold of the cup and the diary and with all of the other horcrxues on his person breathes.

It’s a good, deep breath. One with a lungful of soul. A calm overcomes him. It settles over his shoulders and gently lulls him to go back to sleep. Voldemort will not yield to it. It’s the same reaction always. The Locket and the Diadem and the Diary and the Cup and the Ring look and wait and scheme and plot and has he always been this antagonistic towards himself?

Neither horcrux is happy with the way things are.

’’Be a professor,’’ the Diadem says, ’’fine. That’s fine. I want that for you, as well. But really, original?’’ They’ve made that nickname into a slur, into a hateful bundle of letters and sounds. ’’You went up against the grain of purebloods? Don’t they know best?’’

’’Best?’’ The Diary sneers. ’’They don’t know fuck all about anything. Worse than muggles and the like. They’re nothing more than a means to an end.’’ This is the orphan who sometimes lapses into their upbringing. The only damn reason why they’ve learned the posh sounds of the english language is solely to fit in with the influential crowd. Nothing more.

’’Our original has completely stopped making sense.’’ Locket whispers.

The Ring is crying. ’’You’re going to die!’’

’’I made five of you so I won’t...’’ Voldemort finds having all five horcruxes brought together brings him peace of soul, but ruins his peace of mind. The ice does not gnaw nor burn, but the words and the voices and the presences and their disappointment mesh together into a cockatil of illness. One that feels stronger.

Voldemort even thinks that yesterday, if his memory is to be believed, they tried possessing him. He’s not nearly as unstable enough to refer to himself in third person... or second person plural, for that matter.

’’Bella... please open that door?’’ He senses magic and he wants to hear something more before he brings in a verdict on the horcruxes.

They’ve begun arguing between each other now.

Bellatrix opens the door to Voldemort’s room in Hogwarts and Abraxas Malfoy snaps his fingers at them and winks. ’’Good morning, my darling disgraces. Fancy seeing you dressed.’’

’’Stop it you monster.’’ Bellatrix berates the man. His magic thrums, content. It’s an odd look on him. It’s _less_ stressed. That isn’t something he’s thought Abraxas Malfoy capable of being.

Voldemort’s lips part in a knowing ’o’ shaped. ’’Did you smooth things over with Minerva?’’

Abraxas winks at him and says nothing. ’’I’ve been trying to get an opportune moment with her since we’ve won.’’ That phrase makes Voldemort’s insides churn, still, but he knows that his world is in decent hands and he has stopped. He lowers his head on his pillow and watches the ceiling.

The Diadem screams and pushes the Diary. The Locket calls them both ingrates and his lessers. The Ring keeps telling everyone that all he sees is death and that life is such a precious thing, but that the dead have so many things to learn from. The Cup has no comment and watches the ongoing battle like a spectator.

None of them can actually do anything physically damaging, so it’s fine.

Except Voldemort hears everything. He hears and he can’t concentrate on whatever it is that Abraxas is speaking to him about. It seems to be a lecture of some kind, by the sheer look of disinterest colouring Bella’s visage gradually. She looks at Voldemort as if to say: This? This guy – again?

’’Earth to Voldemort.’’ Abraxas waves and shouts and makes Voldemort make eye contact with him. ’’Yes, finally. I asked you three times already what it’s like to have the band back together. The soulful sixes. You and the famous five. How is it like?’’ There’s hope in his voice. Hope that Voldemort will dash.

’’Come here, Abraxas.’’

Abraxas obliges him. There’s strands of hair sticking out from his near-perfect ponytail. He doesn’t believe they were there seconds prior. It seems that just by his mere presence, Voldemort has already forced Abraxas into relieving something stressful. Such power, at his mere fingertips.

He takes Abraxas’ hand in his and sends a bout of his own magic into Abraxas, showing him a glimpse form his own, horcrux hazed, eyes.

Abraxas jumps when he sees five more Lord Voldemorts. It’s especially graphic for him when he hears what the Diadem will do to the Locket if he doesn’t stop telling them all that they need to rally together and kill the original as he’s got the least amount of their soul and then bind themselves into a new, better Voldemort.

Voldemort feels Abraxas tear away from him fast. ‘’That… that … I will double my efforts once more to find Herpo the Foul. I’ll send my most discreet hit mages to find him I’ll – you…’’ He turns to Voldemort and bites his lip in terror. ‘’How can you possibly live like this?’’

‘’I cannot.’’

Voldemort admits.

And it’s rather freeing.

Even though it’s terrifying and limiting and constricting (like a snake carefully winding around his throat, much alike how he imagines pythons do). He’s traded one sickness for another.

Abraxas throws a robe at him to dress and not hide naked beneath the covers. ‘’Haven’t you got to teach?’’

He has. As a matter of fact. Voldemort finds himself smiling, in spite of everything. ‘’I’ve got first years today.’’

The three Slytherin first years get top marks on an essay he’s given them to write, and a spell along with it to perfect. Ambition shows. It seems for them ambition is academic. There’s something not everybody says about ambition. That it isn’t solely to be the best in school or to dominate a playing field, it’s got different connotations for different people. Lord Voldemort has wanted to rule the world and be so good at everything, do well in every subject – up until the moment he’s become irreplaceable. Irreplaceable people are not discarded or abandoned or killed. Orphans are easily discarded and used as nothing more than factory labour. What other use do they have, really?

Lord Voldemort doesn’t like reflecting on the orphanage, but with two of his horcruxes here that remind him of his youth, he finds his mind straying to that awful, wretched place.

He doesn’t think many of his peers from the orphanage are still alive. Or maybe they are, maybe if he goes out to London or walks around muggle Britain he might even run into them. That would be awkward, thinks Voldemort, if he is to run into Billy Stubbs of all people. He can just imagine that conversation going.

Voldemort: Ah, hello, Stubbs. How are things?  
Stubbs: Right… yeah … ahem … good. Got a family. (He imagines Stubbs with a family of two, maybe they’ve even got a pet rabbit to avenge the one he’s killed with magic) Work as a butcher or something alike. Factory man. You know, those things people without school can do.

And they really wouldn’t have school, would they? University is a figment of a faraway imagination. Voldemort wonders if he ever gets comfortable with his own soul and body and mind that maybe he’ll go and get a degree in something. There’s a magical University in America… Ugh…. _America_. He needs to tell Abraxas that they need to have one. Like a magical Cambridge of sorts. One, however, that is definitely more available and easily accessed to everyone that wants to have an education, not only the Sacred Twenty-Eight elite.

But with that conversation with Stubbs, what would he even say to him?

Voldemort: I work as a professor. Am very well connected. My political party won.

Stubbs: Oi, that’s … grand innit.

Voldemort would nod: Sure is. Didn’t you want to work in the police?

Vaguely he remembers Billy Stubbs playing Bobbies and crooks and always picking Bobbies to emulate while making Voldemort a crook as he and his friends chased him until they caught him to the ground.

Stubbs: Didn’t work out. What about you, have you got a family?

Voldemort feels like if he ever does get asked this by anyone who’s known him outside of Hogwarts that it’s going to be a pointed question: Did anybody decide to love the Satan spawn? Crazy Riddle got any family?

He isn’t one that wants a nuclear family. It’s wishful thinking and not something he has ever thought to entertain. The only dream he’s wanted up until age fifteen was to get adopted. As that didn’t happen and he found out that both of his biological parents are horrid and traumatized people – it seems counterproductive to think about family.

Hogwarts welcomes him. That’s enough for him.

‘’HELLO!’’ The Diadem swings at him and Voldemort stops thinking about the past, to focus on the present and notices that he’s left the classroom and gone to eat something.

‘’What?’’

‘’You walked out of class.’’ Locket says.

‘’I did?’’ Voldemort doesn’t recall. The voices and the presences and the magic and the intoxicating feeling of his soul press against him in a maelstrom.

‘’Confused the daylights out of those young children.’’ Ring says. As if he himself is not a child. _Shut up, you’re **sixteen**. _

Madame Hooch waves him over and Voldemort follows her, trying his best to ignore the bickering going on behind him. For practicality’s sake he’s made the horcruxes into small charms and stacked them on a charmed bracelet. It seems the least trouble to carry them like this.

‘’I’ve heard of your health problems.’’

Voldemort thinks: Abraxas.

Hooch says: ‘’Black went around interrogating us if we’d seen something untoward and let slip some things.’’ She pats him on the shoulder and she solely gets away with this because she used to teach him to ride a broom.

‘’All right…What of my health?’’

‘’I’m not letting you get on a broom until you get better. Forget about quidditch matches. Jones has volunteered. Selwyn as well, to spite her. I’ve got two referees as well as myself now. Sit tight and drink lots of fluids.’’

Fluids. Yes. The cure to Lord Voldemort’s ailment. How could he… ever… forget… about …_FLUIDS_.

‘’Thank you.’’ He rasps out.

Hooch waves his thank you off and flings herself into action. She’s always been so active, Voldemort’s half her age and he feels run over.

‘’Like the carcass in Baudelaire’s poem.’’ Diary whispers. The poet of them all. The one born of creativity and know-how. The other ones are just born from paranoia, father issues, and _anger_. Righteous anger, self-righteous anger, misplaced anger, scared anger, dispassionate anger, just a lot of anger in its many, shifting forms.

‘’Are you my vultures and foxes?’’ Voldemort wonders. ‘’Circling me until I die to pick me apart one by one for your own survival?’’

And the horcruxes peer at him, not knowing how to answer.

‘’Silence is telling, haven’t you learned?’’

Voldemort relishes in the Diary’s balk. ‘’You’re _mad_.’’

‘’Hmm,’’ Voldemort hums, ‘’you don’t say.’’

Bellatrix is in the crowd of children talking to the older students and telling them all about the new Auror programme she is making. Her eyes are like black diamonds, full of joy and dazzle. Tina Shacklebolt is debating her and Bellatrix grins her wide, wide smile. She’s charmed by the girl’s wit. She’s as charmed by her as she’s been charmed by Barty Jr. when he first said he wanted to be a Death Eater. Really now, Voldemort muses, what’s become of that man?

‘’Bella?’’ He need only whisper. Bellatrix’s eyes are trained on him. ‘’What ever did happen to Barty? Is he in the Ministry?’’

‘’He’s lost himself to Star Trek.’’

‘’Excuse me?’’

‘’A few days ago he went to have a talk with a man who remain unnamed because I’m in the company of politically savvy children – do give me a call once you get out of Hogwarts, I could use someone like you working by my side –‘’ Tina shakes her head no and says that she’s going to go to Yugoslavia where her best friend from Durmstrang is and that they’re going to open up a shop for Kneazles. Bellatrix shrugs and continues her tale: ‘’Anyway – he got caught up trying to make the death seem natural, put the man in an armchair, fumbled for a full five minutes trying to figure out how to turn on the television – and then just as he got everything right Star Trek came up on the television and he caught a few minutes, fell in love, and now he keeps returning to that home to catch it when it airs.’’

‘’That’s _disconcerting_.’’

‘’You think?’’ Tina mouths.

‘’As long as it doesn’t impede his work ethic I couldn’t care less.’’ Bellatrix says it how it is. ‘’Now he’s ringing my ear off about some Star Wars thing. Says that there’s things called VHS tapes and whatever else.’’

‘’He is really committed to this life now, isn’t he?’’

‘’I know!’’ Bellatrix laughs. ‘’Barty of all people, too. I never expected that from him.’’

‘’Tell him to watch Monty Python.’’ Tina offers. ‘’It’s the best piece of British history.’’

‘’Oh I’ve watched that with Rita.’’ Bellatrix admits. ‘’The Holy Grail film, yes? The one with the rabbit?’’

Tina nods enthusiastically. Her eyes are wide and she claps her hands together in awe. ‘’You’ve seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail! What did you think of the ending?’’

‘’I laughed so hard I snorted out some of the wine I was drinking. Rita has a lot of these muggle things – her father’s a collector of some kind it seems.’’

‘’Her father collects things that will make him politically interesting. He ruffles through important people’s trash and blackmails them with findings through slanderous articles.’’

‘’Rita isn’t like that.’’ Bella fans away. The Diadem mimics her gesture, solely to get on Voldemort’s nerves. These soul fragments are bigger children than the actual children he teaches.

‘’Oh?’’ Voldemort has a hard time believing this. A Skeeter is a Skeeter.

‘’She would never write anything like that about people I care about.’’ Bella corrects.

Then, back to the topic at hand. ‘’I couldn’t believe the sheer twist of that end! Just when you think they’re about to duel it out – you’ve even become immersed in this medieval setting they’ve made for the film,’’ Bellatrix doubles over, Tina has closed her eyes and wheezes, ‘’the AURORS come to break up what appears to be a re-enactment of an imaginary fight. Oh the genius!’’

‘’Isn’t it the best film you’ve ever seen?’’

‘’It’s the only film I’ve ever seen.’’ Bellatrix admits. Tina gasps in outrage.

They both turn to Voldemort and ask him: ‘’What’s the last film you’ve seen?’’

‘’I remember when Casablanca came to Britain. I went to a cinema with Abraxas.’’

Bellatrix and Tina look at him without any recognition.

‘’Casablanca… you know…’’ Voldemort recalls a scene and gently pushes Bella’s chin up so she makes eye-contact with him, ‘’_Here’s looking at you, kid._’’

Somehow,

Bella and Tina look even more lost.

‘’Forget it.’’

‘’When did this film come out, my lord?’’

‘’It’s fine. Forget it. A very long time ago by the looks of it.’’

‘’I’ll ask my grandparents if they’ve watched it.’’ Tina whispers to Bella, who nods in thanks.

Voldemort writes a letter that night, asking Abraxas if he thinks they are old.


	22. Chapter 22

’’Psst.’’

Voldemort is walking down a hallway, on his way towards a lesson with nervous fifth years prepping for their OWLs.

’’Pssst.’’

The voice continues. Voldemort turns around and finds that among the portraits he’s passing there is a woman following him. A cheery, plump woman best known under the name: Helga Hufflepuff.

He looks at his wristwatch and sees that he may take a little time out of his brisk walk to speak to a Founder. The very last thing he needs is to be called impolite. Think of what Salazar will say (not many things, and all of them are inarticulate hissing – speechless he’s been rendered by his descendants) .

’’I know about those.’’ Helga points at his bracelet. The one with the horcruxes. They’re quietly watching, reverent of seeing a Founder speak to them. Usually they don’t speak to the students, electing the professors to teach, saying that their time has passed. Though, legend and practise proves that they do teach souls who they find are lost beyond mortal help.

’’I suppose you think they’re amoral.’’

’’Salazar is the prude purist, not I.’’ Helga admits. ’’Being friends with Rowena has its benefits and drawbacks.’’ Then, not even allowing a moment to pass in silence, she resumes. ’’You’ve all turned my House into one that takes the strays and the stragglers who don’t fit in anywhere – my House is for those whom Salazar, Godric, and Rowena don’t know what to do with... They were really all terrible educators. I think I saw Godric telling his children to run up and down the moving staircases instead of giving them detention. I should actually like to say that you _limit_ many children. Especially this Ministry nonsense. Things made sense before.’’

Voldemort blinks. He doesn’t know how to reply to this. ’’What do you mean by that?’’

’’Dark magic, of course!’’ Helga raises her hands in the air in defeat. ’’There is no such things as Dark Magic. Only magic. You have dragged politics into something that politics has no right to be in.’’

’’Well,’’ Voldemort trails off. _Well_.

’’Rowena dabbled in what you call Dark Magic. These wards are blood wards, the most complex kind if I recall. Or at least they were up until most of our descendants died out and keeping them on as ward-keepers proved impossible to continue. Salazar was the most cautious of us, fair enough I admit. He bartered with the fairies living on this ground to make peace with a school coming along. We worried that they would snatch the children, but no muggle would ever dare come on fairy ground. They were unkind fairies, but ones that liked to exchange gifts with us. Before muggle-repelling charms were even created, mages guarded against muggle scrutiny by killing them, making themselves into terrifying horror-stories, or asking creatures for help on the matter.’’

Voldemort discreetly glances at his wristwatch and thinks that he is definitely going to be late for this class. He tries to inch away, but much alike how all old people are – Helga keeps on following him through the portraits and talking about the old days.

’’Everyone had their part in upholding the safety of Hogwarts.’’

’’That song...’’ Voldemort will forever be scarred by Hoggy Hoggy Hogwarts.

’’It sounds much better in Old English.’’ Helga admits, fans away now. ’’I went to a faraway place to learn under masters of magic ways of defence. We feared muggles then. Much more than we do now. This Secrecy has cost you all _awareness_. You’ve grown bolder, you’ve grown hateful of muggles – but we do not hate them. Hear me now, Salazar never hated muggles. He feared them.’’

’’Hate is born from fear.’’

’’Hate is _anger_ and fear.’’ Helga corrects. ’’We were all angry. Rounded up and killed by them. You would think they would be afraid of us with the abilities we had, but it seemed to only challenge some of them to hunt us down for sport.’’

’’That’s terrible.’’

’’Yes and now some purebloods hunt muggles for sport. It’s all hush-hush, of course. But I overhear things.’’

’’Well... the Goyles have always been a bloodthirsty sort.’’

’’Neither of these things are good. Neither side should be so callous and arrogant.’’

’’I agree.’’

Hepzibah Smith has talked and talked and talked without getting to the point countless times. Voldemort remembers thinking that maybe hunting the Hufflepuff Cup isn’t worth the trouble and sexual harassment from that gropey, frustrated old woman. It seems that this long talk has been inherited.

Helga taps her chin with her index finger and says: ’’Do you know who the only Basilisk breeder in the world is?’’

’’Herpo the Foul.’’

’’Yes.’’ Helga nods. ’’Where did you think the basilisk came from? The one you fondly call Beatrice.’’

’’Salazar Slytherin’s worldly travels?’’

’’No, no. Salazar needed to stay here and mind the fairies. He left Hogwarts for good and then went off to travel the world. I travelled it before. I met a lot of interesting characters along my way. Most of them artists. Do you fancy art?’’

’’Art?’’

’’Yes. Art.’’ Helga crosses her arms and peers judgementally at Voldemort. ’’A man without art is a man without soul.’’

’’I have a problematic relationship with my soul at the moment, Lady Hufflepuff.’’

’’I’m not high born like the rest of them. I was a barmaid for a few good years.’’ Hufflepuff shall not have her humble beginnings forgotten. ’’Call me Helga.’’

’’Helga...’’ Voldemort feels wrong saying her name, kind of how children feel wrong calling an adult by their first name.

’’I like art. The paintings were my idea. I made sure to cultivate artistry in every student I could. They sent over their portraits and paintings and I hung them around these walls as a reminder that art was important. It speaks. My mentor, the one that taught me the most about art and life and death, he told me that People Make Art.’’

’’Of course people make art.’’ Voldemort doesn’t thinks that art just makes itself.

’’It was apparent ... correction ... Art is Made _out of _People.’’ Helga has exhausted her English and is now backtracking. ’’Pardon. How did he say it...’’

’’Who? I shall look him up.’’

’’You’re looking for him, already. There is no paper trail left aside from the mistranslations you have read in the Restricted Section...’’ Voldemort furrows his brows at this. His heart beats. The horcruxes hiss in worry. ’’Walls talk. I hear them talk to me.’’ Helga speaks cryptically. ’’This was his favourite saying I cannot believe I do not remember... perhaps it can’t be translated. That is a shame. I shall ask Salazar, maybe he can tell it to you in parseltongue.’’

’’Is... Madame Helga... are you talking about _Herpo the Foul_?’’

’’No.’’ Helga laughs. ’’Goodness he hates that name. If you try looking for him under that name you won’t find a single trail of his presence.’’

’’You know his name then?’’

’’I studied under him for years. He even gave me a baby basilisk as a gift! Of course he only gave her to me because he knew I was going to give the snake to a parselmouth. My dear Salazar...His eyes, his mouth, his nose they are likened to -’’

’’Helga,’’ Voldemort interrupts her lovely poem about Slytherin. ’’What is his name? I am looking for him.’’

Helga peers at him. She drops her gaze from his crimson eyes and notes the horcrux symbols rattling and moving on the bracelet. ’’You are looking for someone who doesn’t exist.’’

’’Then who exists?’’

’’I’ve been sworn never to reveal his name.’’ Helga shrugs. ’I’m sorry.’’

Voldemort sighs. Of course. It’s a precaution, one that he himself would enact if their positions were reversed. He doesn’t hold any ill will towards Madame Helga.

’’Do you go to art shows?’’

’’Pardon?’’

’’What do basilisk eyes do?’’ Her questions are more cryptic than the previous and he really doesn’t know how she can jump from these topics so carelessly.

’’Kill people.’’

’’When stared at indirectly?’’

’’Petrify people.’’

Helga is happily leading him towards something. He waits for her to ask more questions. The horcruxes watch, transfixed. Their silence is a gift.

’’What can be found in art exhibits?’’

’’Paintings?’’

’’Yes, what else?’’

’’Furniture nowadays...’’

’’Modern art eludes me. No, think Renaissance. Michelangelo.’’

’’Sculptures?’’

’’Yes. Made of what?’’

’’Marble?’’

’’Yes. What else?’’

’’Jade,’’ Voldemort begins to list off, ’’copper, gold, silver, metal, iron, I saw one made out of rubies once. It was the gaudiest thing I’ve ever witnessed.’’

’’I’ve lost you.’’ Helga tells him to backtrack.

’’Basilisks can petrify people.’’ Lord Voldemort goes back to that. ’’They turn into stone. The process is reversible, but it takes months for the ingredients to be procured.’’

’’What is Herpo the Foul known for?’’

’’Breeding basilisks. Immortality.’’

’’Yes and I imagine a lot of people come to him unannounced to either see him, ask about the immortality, or hunt him down because they think it’s a sick and twisted life he has. He has to have guard dogs in place,’’

’’Which are probably basilisks.’’

’’Yes.’’

’’And if they don’t look directly in their eyes the victims turn to stone...and why should they just litter his place of residence ... you mentioned that he’s an artist ... he values art and ....oh he can pass them off as hyper-realistic sculptures, can’t he?’’

Helga is nodding.

’’You’re telling me that he’s alive, and that he’s an artist that makes sculptures out of people’s petrified bodies!’’

Helga clasps her hands together and says: ’’Yes, isn’t it clever?’’

Voldemort isn’t a hypocrite, but he can think of a few reasons why this is inhumane.

’’Why doesn’t he just destroy them—’’

Helga rubs her fingers together. Ah, money. Yes. A man over two thousand years old has to find a way to make a living. Helga elaborates: ’’He first contacts the victim’s family, asking for ransom money. If they can’t comply he sells their relative off at an art exhibit.’’

’’Still no name?’’

’’How do you think his sculptures all _look_ like – he has a theme. When you know what to look for it’s easy to find him.’’

’’I imagine the victims are all terrified out of their minds.’’

’’There you have it. That ought to significantly narrow it down. Do tell that Malfoy boy of yours to search for a sculptor... ’’ Voldemort thanks Helga and goes to leave, but she seems to have just a little more to say before she does relieve him of his listening duties. ’’Before I forget! Death is his best friend, you know.’’ Helga warns him. ’’You destroying one of the Hallows will have unforeseen consequences.’’

’’If you knew all of this...’’ Voldemort has seen Helga’s portrait multiple times around Hogwarts and she has never spoken to him. ’’Why haven’t you said anything before?’’

’’Rowena scared me. I wanted to tell you, but only after you and she had made peace with each other.’’ Helga shuddered. ’’She once set a dragon on Godric.’’

’’A _dragon_?’’ Voldemort asks where she even found one.

’’Animals loved her. She taught Care for Magical Creatures and they just flocked to her.’’

Voldemort tries to imagine Rowena Ravenclaw on a dragon, chasing down Godric Gryffindor. It’s too baffling.

’’Thank you, Madame Helga.’’ Voldemort bows in thanks. Helga tells him to say hello to her dear mentor.

’’I’ve learned so much from him.’’ Helga smiles widely and clasps her hands together in joyous symphony. Even the magic emitting from the painted woman gives off merry vibes. ’’Don’t call him Herpo the Foul.’’ Then, more importantly. ’’If he asks you about philosophy you best not mention Socrates. On the off chance that he does ask you about Socrates,’’ Voldemort is all committing this to memory, ’’You are to answer that you HATE Socrates.’’

’’All right.’’ Voldemort gives a thumbs up.

’’Good luck!’’

* * *

They hold a meeting with the inner circle at Malfoy Manor.

Voldemort orders his horcruxes to remain silent and they all roll their eyes and groan and tell him that they don’t like how he’s treating them like they’re not , well, Lord Voldemort, and that of course they can be quiet, but does he have to phrase it so meanly and cruelly?

_’’Please_...’’ Lord Voldemort says. It pains him. It hurts him even more than the ice, but at least he knows he isn’t dying painfully with all of the horcruxes present (and he knows that he is dying still because he wakes up tired and he still sometimes throws up food, but not nearly as often and not nearly as badly as before)

The horcruxes sing a different tune now that they’ve humiliated their original soul holder.

Avery is the only one of his inner circle that actually likes art, it seems. He knows where all of these artists mingle and know if there’s underground exhibits in place. ’’Dark mages have art exhibits with muggle body parts. A lot of them found in China. I went once to one of these galleries and I assure you, my lord, that I have been traumatized beyond measure.’’

’’I believe you.’’

Avery goes into explicit detail.

Abraxas looks about ready to throw up. Thoros is paling. Bella is charmed and **interested**.

They’ve gone through war, all of them.

Voldemort wishes he hadn’t heard the things he has. ’’I believe you, _stop_.’’

’’No, no –let him finish.’’ Bellatrix leans forward in her chair to listen more closely.

’’Bella, not even you can be this sadistic.’’

’’It’s **Art**.’’ Bella clenches her hand into a fist and dramatically proclaims: ’’Art is Blood.’’

’’But not one that is pure.’’

’’Goodness no.’’ Abraxas adds.

Voldemort scoffs. These are the people he is to make a new world order.

’’None of my contacts have ever heard of a sculptor like this. Which means that he doesn’t showcase his art to mages. They would ask questions, conduct experiments, and out him on his inhumane behaviour.’’ Avery goes on and Voldemort does not like where this is going.

’’So he sells his art to muggles, you mean?’’ Bellatrix tilts her head to the side and says that this sounds uncomfortable. ’’Muggles would actually buy something like that? I mean you could sell these sculptures like those to purebloods no problem.’’

’’Call it something like: _Muggles, subjugated_. And you would make a killing.’’

’’Yes, but our artist is aware enough that muggles would never be able to crack his diabolical plot.’’

’’What do you even think he calls his pieces?’’

’’Hell: realised?’’ Voldemort wonders. He’s the only one present that can think like a muggle.

Though, he cannot think like a rich muggle.

He turns to Abraxas, who has a notebook in his lap and is scribbling in it furiously, and asks: ’’What would attract you to go to an art exhibit, Abraxas?’’

’’Probably the acclaim.’’ Abraxas answers, looking up. ’’That or boredom.’’

’’I think that his main clientele are Christians.’’ Voldemort puts it out there. They seem like they’re self-flagellated enough to have statues depicting the incarnation of mortal fear in their backyards.

’’How would you know that?’’

’’I was a catholic for the first fifteen years of my life, Abraxas. This fits the profile perfectly.’’

’’What’s Catholicism like?’’ Bella asks. ’’I’ve heard horror stories.’’

’’Bella, I don’t know what Catholicism is like for children with parents and guardians who give a fuck about them,’’ the present blink at the curse word, but at this point the Dairy is speaking through him, ’’but for orphans it was the worst possible authority figure to bow to and I do not think that these horror stories you’ve heard come close to describing the sheer terror I felt whenever Mrs. Cole forced me in one.’’

’’Is that where they exorcised you?’’

’’First she tried to send me to a mental institution, but when they just told her I was schizophrenic and had to take expensive medicine she decided to take matters into her own hands... by giving me to the catholic church for exorcism.’’

Abraxas places a hand on Voldemort’s shoulder and kind of just squeezes it in reassurance and comfort. Voldemort blinks at it. It’s been decades since then. He’s killed Cole for revenge and moved on, thank you.

’’So you haven’t got a mental illness?’’ Avery wants to double check.

’’I haven’t got _schizophrenia_. They diagnosed me with it because I could talk to snakes. Telling people I can talk to snakes has really been one of the biggest red flags in my life, hasn't it?’’

Before more questions about the muggle world can be asked, Abraxas redirects them back to the real topic at hand. ’’Herpo the Foul. Mage artist targeting rich muggles. Has anyone got any muggles they know to ask more about this?’’

Not even crickets sound.

’’Come on, you’re all rich –’’

’’Dear,’’ Abraxas whispers, ’’you’re the wealthiest of us here.’’

Voldemort refuses to believe that. ’’What would you call this exhibit? Where would you even put this exhibit – can’t you make one of your Arithmancy equations?’’

Abraxas rattles the notebook. ’’What do you think I’m doing with this?’’

’’Writing poetry?’’

’’Ew.’’ Abraxas is appalled. _’’Words_.’’

His Abraxas has never been, nor will he ever be a Man of Letters.

He is a Man of Numbers and that’s final.

They’re in the meeting for another two hours, until Narcissa barges in, wishes them all a good night and tells them that the elves have made dinner and that they can stop talking shop for a bit.

Dinner comes as a good distraction. Voldemort’s appetite is actually much better, but the horcruxes keep jumping on his head and talking loudly and he just wants to be healthy and sane. Is that really too much?

’’I feel like I’m being punished for having them all...’’

’’The horcruxes?’’ Bellatrix sits with Voldemort and steals food off of his plate when he isn’t looking.

He glances over at her and asks her why she’s doing that.

’’Testing it if it’s poisoned.’’

Voldemort nods. ’’Carry on.’’

The real reason is because Bella’s plate is full of healthy things Narcissa has told the Elves to put on her plate special. All things that Bella hates eating.

When Narcissa isn’t looking Voldemort switches their plates. Bellatrix rubs her hands in glee and digs in properly.

They let slip that they’re looking for an artist halfway into their wine. Voldemort knows that Thoros is useless when drunk and this doesn’t surprise him, at all.

Lucius is imitating the Hogwarts express as he’s trying to get Draco to eat. ’’Look at the red train, cho choo. With yummy, _yummy_ food.’’

Draco is not having it. He slaps the spoon away and bawls.

Thoros keeps talking about their mission and how they’re running into

Narcissa, over the noise as Lucius tries to calm their son, asks: ’’Do you mean Alexio, perhaps? My sister Andromeda fancies his art.’’

’’Andromeda?’’ Bellatrix furrows her brows.

’’Yes, she’s into that sort of thing. We’ve spoken about it during the Anniversary festivities.’’

’’Alexio, you say?’’ Voldemort tastes the name on his tongue slowly, as if wine-tasting it.

Narcissa says that she’ll get Andromed to send them a catalogue of his art. ’’They’re in very high demand.’’

’’Isn’t Andromeda... poor?’’ Bellatrix titls her head. She’s always imagined running away with a mudblood yields to poverty.

’’No, no. Andromeda is quite well off.’’ Narcissa says something about the stock market and arithmancy equations telling her where to invest.

’’And mingling with muggle crowds.’’ Bellatrix whispers.

’’Write her.’’ Voldemort orders Narcissa. She does so immediately.

Andromeda’s letter comes back to them tomorrow morning.

The exhibit is having its opening night in London.

Andromeda says that this is odd as the man never holds exhibits outside of France, but in an interview says that he has recently heard from his muse that London is the right place for him and his art.

The catalogue attached in the letter depicts faces trapped in agony. Veins protruding from stress across their petrified forms. These are all people used by a mage like pawns.

Andromeda says that this is his best exhibit yet and that she thinks she’s going to go with them.

The absolutely most on-the-nose thing Voldemort has ever seen is the title of this exhibit.

_Remorse_.


	23. Chapter 23

Lord Voldemort realises as he’s looking at himself in the mirror that he’s never worn a suit in his entire life. It fits him perfectly (because Abraxas knows his measurements). Slowly he adjusts the tie, to let himself breathe a little better. Hidden underneath his long sleeves is the horcrux bracelet.

They’re looking at him queerly. Something about his appearance just doesn’t add up, and then the Ring, with his oddly crooked eyes (like his mother’s) points at him and says: ’’You look like Lord Riddle.’’

He’s taken care to distance himself from the muggle world and their fashion, solely to fit in with the mages he’s surrounded himself with. Now, though, fate seems to tell him that he must abide by her rules and go mingle with rich aristocrats. And if his father had taken him in, surely this wouldn’t be different than the things he would have done as heir to the Riddle fortune.

That’s the tipping point for him. He runs a hand through his hair and whispers: ’’This is unimaginable.’’

The door is opened and Bellatrix Black is wearing a dress that she finds abhorrently cheeky. ’’This,’’ she tugs it down, and it’s got _sparkles_, ’’this is terrible.’’ The dress keeps riding up and Bella points to her thighs to charm the dress stuck to them. But then she realises that it will impede her movement and she can’t have that. ’’Gargh.’’ Bella makes inarticulate noises of distress. Her stockings have an intricate pattern on them and she’s wearing what appear to be high-heels.

’’Can you walk in those?’’

Bellatrix gives Voldemort a look as if to kindly tell him to keep his mouth shut as she spells her heels with another balancing spell, else she will topple down.

A white fur coat dwarfs her. ’’I think it’s made of Dalmatians.’’ Bellatrix says. ’’Andromeda made fun of me that I look like some woman named Cruella. Whom she calls Muggle Walburga.’’

’’You do look a lot like your dead aunt.’’

’’NO.’’ Bella points angrily at him. ’’Retract that!’’

’’What if I don’t?’’

’’I’ll make you inconvenienced!’’

’’The worst possible thing to happen to me.’’

’’You bet it will be!’’

Voldemort smiles softly, because Bella always seems to draw those smiles out of him with her words. He offers Bella his arm to keep her on with stable footing. She accepts only when he does retract his wounding comparison.

’’You look very beautiful.’’

’’You look madly dashing yourself.’’

They exit the room to find Abraxas Malfoy utilizing 80s fashion to his dying breath.

’’My eyes hurt.’’

Bellatrix has conjured sunglasses out of dust particles flowing in the air. She hands one pair to Voldemort. The neon _hurts_. The other pair she puts on her eyes and breathes a sigh of relief.

Abraxas turns around and says that they look like they’ve crawled out of the 50s.

’’They really don’t.’’ Andromeda, their main muggle source, says that Bella and Lord Voldemort look equally as influenced by the 80s as Abraxas. Except Abraxas has gone in the whole different side of extremes.

The makeup girls Abraxas keeps using finally look like they’re thrilled to be here. They _attack_ Bellatrix.

Abraxas is also wearing a suit, but with patterns so ungodly Voldemort wonders if he’ll be sent back on the basis of obviously being a wizard. Andromeda assures them that he won’t because muggle fashion has gone crazy in the 80s.

The makeup girls turn to Abraxas, having finished putting the appropriate makeup on Bella, and widen their smiles. Voldemort feels unease. Abraxas asks them what this is about. They gesture his hair and tell him that muggle me don’t wear their hair like that.

’’HA!’’ Bellatrix shouts. ’’Suffer!’’ She totters on her heels and thinks that she is going to fall. Then she does fall.

Voldemort blinks at her dramatic eye shadow. ’’Bella, how are you holding up?’’

’’Not well.’’

A while later Abraxas is sporting what is supposedly called: A mullet.

’’My dear Abraxas,’’ Voldemort covers his mouth with one of his hands and bites his lip to stop the onslaught of laughter which he knows is impending, ’’what did they do to you?’’

’’Let’s just get this over with.’’ Abraxas says before snatching their sunglasses away. Only people who have afforded themselves diplomatic immunity get to wear sunglasses in closed spaces. Everyone else is just idiotic and crass, Abraxas teaches.

They disapparate together, led by Andromeda.

* * *

The art exhibition is packed with fancy people. Voldemort calls them fancy because he really doesn’t know what else to call them. He hears so, so much posh English words being thrown about. Really, he thinks, what could he have expected differently?

Bellatrix is holding a long cigarette holder she’s unearthed from her mother. It seems like a classy enough thing to use. She blows smoke into Abraxas’ face when he tells them to behave and talk about how they’re very wealthy. He discreetly charms Voldemort’s eyes brown.

’’That isn’t something you talk about...’’ Bella has a feeling that you shouldn’t flaunt your wealth among muggles.

’’How would you know, have you ever even met a muggle?’’

’’I’ve met several right before their deaths, _fucker_.’’ Bella says in a ’do you feel dumb now’ sort of voice.

Andromeda goes off on her own to look at the statues. She’s been informed of the statues’ real nature, but seems that this has only double their value in her eyes.

It’s a sea of imprisoned people, warped into art for the amusement of unsuspecting muggles with deep pockets to empty. Voldemort carefully glides past them, not giving many of the statues his attention. He’s thought about going to Herpo – Alexio’s as a younger man, fuelled by passion and fire for war. He doesn’t want to imagine himself as one of these statues, sold off to muggles. Is a petrified person aware of their surroundings? That level of awareness would be unfathomable and torturous.

Awareness is both such a blessing and an uncomfortable curse. Though, it’s one that that’s much better than ignorance or self-inflicted denial.

A man in a simple, timeless black suit stands out among the crowd. He wears sunglasses in a closed space and Voldemort briefly wonders what Abraxas thinks of him.

’’Welcome to my latest exhibition, my dear patrons and lovers of art from all around.’’ He speaks in an accented English. It’s French, but there’s something layered underneath it. Voldemort doesn’t fancy himself a polyglot or a linguist so he can’t tell.

’’I named this exhibition Remorse. You will find that,’’ The man in the sunglasses, Alexio, smiles and looks in Voldemort’s direction, ’’this will be my last show in London. The first and last. My muse, my inspiration, my greatest love – she has bid me here and I would like to thank you for the hospitality and beautiful reception. Enjoy the art. If you fancy paintings I do have a few of them. Also, please, do not be afraid to have something to nibble on. My manager tells me we’ve got exquisite mini quiches.’’

Voldemort glances away for a moment at the quiches Alexio is gesturing only to see that Bellatrix has already taken a few because art disinterest her and she’s only here as muscle and because she’s the quickest caster than all of them.

Abraxas —that fucking extrovert – he’s actually talking to muggles.

’’I think it depicts a sense of foreboding doom, one that you get when one of your employees asks for a raise.’’

Nods from all around. Voldemort furrows his brows. They’re actually interacting well. He’s integrated himself into their culture.

’’Minimum wage? I call it That’s Far Too Much Spent On A Complete Stranger wage.’’

Even more nods. He’s found himself in a crowd of wealthy, heartless muggles who don’t understand the concept of poverty. Not that Abraxas himself understands the concept of poverty. Voldemort’s tried explaining it to him, but to no avail.

’’What did you say your name was?’’

’’Abr –aham.’’ Abraxas remembers his muggle name. ’’Yes, hello. Abraham Mallory.’’

’’Mallory,’’ the muggles question, ’’I don’t believe I know that name.’’

’’We’re in the oil business.’’

And just like that nobody asks any further questions.

Bellatrix keeps getting hit on by muggle men who want to know everything about her. This goes spectacularly unwell because Bella has no idea how to flirt to save her damn life. To avoid speaking she just keeps eating the mini-quiches until the muggles leave her alone. It’s a sound tactic, all things considered.

Voldemort breathes in, breathes out, and finally goes to speak to Alexio.

But Andromeda beats him to it. She’s actually got things to talk to him about art.

So, off to the side because Voldemort doesn’t want to make a scene and out himself as an urchin from Woolwich, he waits expectantly for Andromeda to take a hint and leave.

Looking at his wristwatch he sees that they’ve been talking for agonizingly long six minutes,

Bellatrix finally sees what’s going on and takes Andromeda’s arm, says: ’’Lovely art,’’ and drags her away.

Voldemort clears his throat and outstretches his arm. Alexio takes it. ’’Mr. Alexio, I have heard a lot about you.’’

’’Likewise, Voldemort.’’ Alexio’s magic cannot be felt, but that’s a good thing. A man of his age would have a distinct magical trail and would be easy to track down. This doesn’t help him in anything. ’’I came to London solely hoping to speak to you.’’ He smiles.

Voldemort smiles, as well. It’s a forced smile. He can’t see what Alexio is thinking because of the sunglasses. He wonders, among other things, whether Alexio has crimson eyes like him.

’’What is it that you would like to speak about?’’ Is he really playing nonchalant? Voldemort doesn’t know what’s come over him. He will not show how desperate he is for answers and a way out of his predicament, however. No matter the pain or the indignation, the only thing he has is his integrity and dignity.

’’Not now.’’ Alexio fans him away. As he’s doing so he gives him a conjured card with a phone number. ’’Call me later tonight. We have many things to discuss. Now go.’’ Then, on second thought, ’’Unless you want to busy something, then please – do stay and look around.’’

Andromeda, by the looks of her, has her eyes set on a statue of a child which she plans on de-petrifying. ’’Does this one come in a pair?’’ She questions and Alexio points out a few adult statues. ’’That’s the only family I have. The rest are all singles.’’ He relishes in these inside jokes.

Andromeda says she’ll buy the family.

At the price Voldemort just looks at Andromeda who hasn’t even batted an eyelid. _Well_. 

’’If you buy me out I’ll even throw a free deal.’’ Alexio smiles and waves at some of his patrons who are saying that they love his work very much.

’’You don’t even know what I’ll ask you.’’

’’The free deal is I take Helga’s basilisk to a better location. She’s let me down as both a mentee and a human being. Basilisks need space, they’re social creatures, and they like the sun. From what I’ve gleaned from your mind-’’ Voldemort tenses and wonders how he has’t felt him rummaging through his skull, ’’-this basilisk is not being taken care of properly.’’

Voldemort expects a lot of things, but to be proxy to animal abuse allegations is not one of them. ’’Could I visit her?’’

’’If she likes.’’

This is a good thing because Minerva will be happy and less tense about the whole basilisk affair. He breathes to quiet his restless mind and screeching soul. ’’Is there any way that we can talk now, I do not fancy-’’

’’Buy me out now. I abhor London. The only reason why I’m here is to talk to you on behalf of Death.’’ Alexio’s words pierce something deep in Voldemort’s heart. Something that only a Boggart can accomplish. He whispers, hoarsely, asking about what Alexio means by Death has asked him to do something...

’’I am the messenger of Death. She is my muse and I am her tool.’’

Voldemort swallows down a ball of trepidation lodged in the middle of his throat. He waves Abraxas and Bella over and tells them that he needs their money.

A moment later Alexio is _very_ happy to go to Malfoy Manor with them to conduct this talk in a more professional setting, with less prying eyes and slippery tongues.

* * *

Alexio takes his glasses off as he plops down to sit in a leather armchair, leisurely swirling a glass of whisky in one hand, whilst in the other he twirls the horcrux bracelet.

Voldemort breathes hard and laboured. It nearly reaches a pant. He refuses to double in pain, but the ice has returned. It is a reminder that his soul is gone and the emptiness is unforgiving.

Abraxas has spelled a record player to play jazz in the background, because Alexio finds silence a boring wife and music its illustrious and enticing mistress.

Bellatrix guards the door by leaning on it and watching every twitch, every ill-advised movement that might evolve into something malevolent.

’’Death dislikes immortals.’’ Alexio takes a sip of the whisky and after swallowing continues, ’’It took her one thousand years of threats to warm up to the idea of my existence. She has sabotaged many immortals after me by making my horcrux method into the most badly translated piece of magic I have ever witnessed. This,’’ Alexio gestures all of Voldemort, ’’all of this is nothing more than you not being able to follow orders correctly. If you’d read my ancient Greek tablets you’d be sane, healthy, and very much immortal.’’

Voldemort’s eyes widen, as does his mouth in a bewildered, disbelieving and scared ’o’ shape. He pulls back his lips in a caged smile.

’’Most immortals, those who have come after me – they all die painfully. At first they cling to their horcrux and don’t want to give it up, but then... they decide that they would rather die than live on in such wretched pain. I’ve gone to many of their funerals to ensure that they stay dead. Death bids me to go and I go.’’

’’I thought that you were going to help!’’ Abraxas’ hair is electrified. His whole body is abuzz with frantic magic. He does not approach. The only one that is allowed close to Alexio is Voldemort, this is his only term.

Alexio ignores Abraxas in his own home. It feels worse than a slap to the face for the Malfoy.

The ancient mage leans forward, drains the whisky glass, vanishes it, and places his elbows on his knees. His equally as crimson eyes stare into Voldemort’s. ’’I saw your fiasco in the newspapers. Globally people believe that your breaking the Elder Wand is a publicity stunt. Good work,’’ Alexio turns slightly as if to nod to Abraxas and give him credit where it is overdue, ’’but you forget that Death watches everything.’’

Voldemort leans back, yet longs to lunge forward and grab his horcruxes from this man. This eldritch, horrific man who takes human life for granted, solely because his is not forfeit to Death.

’’She doesn’t like being told what to do, you know. I know her better than any human.’’ Alexio nods and takes off the ring from the bracelet. He tosses the bracelet to Vodlemort who clings to the presence of his soul like a starving man to food.

Alexio gazes at the ring for a moment before whispering something, accioing the loose tie around Voldemort’s throat free – and then slapping those two objects together.

There’s a bright light, Voldemort has to close his eyes – and when it fades Alexio tosses him the tie back and say that that’s his horcrux now. He shows him the ring and says: ’’This is the Resurrection Stone, by the way.’’

Bellatrix sputters then: ’’ARE YOU KIDDING ME?’’

Voldemort looks at his tie and thinks that of all the things in this damn manor, the least Alexio could have done is to put the ring’s soul piece in an object worthy of holding a piece of soul. Not a bloody muggle tie. It isn’t even a _fancy_ tie.

’’Death told me to tell you that if you want me to do something about your soul predicament that she wants you to destroy all of the Hallows. You see, she **really** doesn’t like being told what to do. People have a tendency to want to have control over Death – ergo why they hunt for the Hallows. With them all destroyed she can finally take that break I’ve been nagging her to take since 1056.’’ Alexio tosses the Resurrection Stone at Voldemort who catches it and, without thinking, sets if aflame with fiendfyre.

As it burns, for a brief glimpse of a second he thinks he sees his own mother. She doesn’t say anything. Voldemort shudders. He hasn’t got time to revisit ghosts of the past.

Alexio chirpily tells him: ’’All that’s left to find now is the Invisibility Cloak.’’

And Voldemort has absolutely no idea where it could be. He turns towards Abraxas and Bellatrix for help, but finds them both flaberghasted. Ah, yes, destroying two of the Deathly Hallows must be something they need more time to process.

Alexio asks for another drink and Voldemort joins him.


	24. Chapter 24

Lord Voldemort thinks that the horcrux bracelet needs to shut up. ’’Are you trying to get me to go mad?’

’’Is it working?’’

’’If you go insane can we take over and use the body?’’

’’Yes, it’s unfair – you’ve been using it for over fifty years.’’

’’...’’

Lord Voldemort says nothing more. He goes off on a day of teaching and awarding points and definitely not growing paranoid. An Invisibility cloak has to be very hard to find. Abraxas has already sent word that everyone needs to get their invisibility cloak checked. He says that he plans an accidental fire to engulf everything.

Bellatrix is carrying flowers from her darling girlfriend. ’’It’s our anniversary.’’

’’Really?’’

’’A month.’’ Bella boasts.

’’That’s nothing.’’ Voldemort tells her and laughs. She tells him that it is to her. ’’Dear Bella.’’ He softly says and doesn’t continue. Bella narrows her eyes and goes to see what Roderick Lestrange is up to. She greets him as she always does: ’’Say hi to Never-Going-To-Be-Your-Aunt Bella!’’

Tina Shacklebolt, Voldemort is concerned, has only one brain cell. This is the only explanation he has for her coming to him and asking him if he can set her up with a job. Her cheeks are red with embarrassment to be asking him of all people – what with their political clashes. Voldemort smiles and asks her why she’s come crawling to him.

’’My brother got arrested and the Yugoslavia Kneazle stint kind of feel apart because my ex-friend is a very, very stupid person who doesn’t know how to handle money and now I’m in _debt_.’’ Tina raises her arms in the air. ’’Yay.’’ It is the most disheartening yay Voldemort has ever heard.

’’I’ll clean.’’ Tina says. ’’I’ll do whatever you want as long as it isn’t sexual.’’

Voldemort twitches at her forwardness. These women will be the death of him. ’’Miss Shacklebolt... you have the potential to be someone great if only you allow me to guide you.’’

’’I fancy myself great as I am now.’’

’’Great_er_.’’ Voldemort amends. What is it with this youth and having a good sense of self-esteem? ’’But know that if I take you on I will not let you go. Promising students at Hogwarts will find themselves land-locked, as they say. Or sent on international missions. I’ll let the mediocre and the stupid go abroad to pollute the enemy.’’

’’Like I get to travel – Professor Tyrant, don’t I?’’

’’Oh no, I didn’t mean literally. I just meant work wise.’’ How these children always manage to render him so awkward and fumbling, he will never know!

’’What’s the job?’’

’’Loads of things.’’ Voldemort pats Tina on the shoulder and begins to explain to her, in intricate detail, how he is slowly going insane grading lower-year essays. ’’I don’t think anyone’s taught them how to write with a quill. Their mistakes give me migraines. You, my dear mistake of nature, shall grade these essays. I expect you to take your job as my assistant very seriously.’’

’’If they’re form a pureblood family do I give max points?’’

’’If it’s Sacred Twenty-Eight and you’re very tired you may give them max points.’’

Tina and Voldemort shake on it.

In the evening, Voldemort gives Tina the second year essays and goes over to Abraxas Malfoy’s home.

Abraxas hands him lots of sweets that night and tells him , rather explicitly: ’’Don’t eat many. I know how you get.’’

Lord Voldemort shakes his head and takes the entire box of chocolates out of spite. ’’You know nothing about me, Abraxas.’’

Abraxas rolls his eyes and doesn’t comment further.

* * *

It comes in every individual’s life when they realise that they’re wrong and that their whole entire life has led them to a wrong moment where they don’t want to be. Lord Voldemort realises this during one class when Gilderoy Lockhart goes too far and makes one too many ignorant pureblood comments.

’’That’s it!’’ Lord Voldemort exclaims. ’’I’m done, tired, exhausted of listening to purebloods. It’s time they all fucking stopped, it is!’’ His accent spikes when he curses. ’’The time of reckoning is nigh.’’ He stands up on a desk and there’s a lot more student than there usually are in his class, but Voldemort is stuck in the moment and he’s not going to think of the semantics. ’’If you’re a pureblood you’re a piece of shite!’’

’’Hell yeah!’’ Some muggleborn students cheer.

’’No, not you!’’ Voldemort points at them and says. ’’You can all rot. You won’t be relevant in the next twenty years I can tell. Unless of course someone amazingly genius comes by. Be content to be alive!’’

The purebloods raise their hands in confusion and he doesn’t call on them. Lord Voldemort cackles and kicks down the stuff on his desk and exclaims: ’’I summon thee – the neither here nor there people – the halfbloods! The horrors we’ve faced – the subtle discrimination we have gone against all our lives – it all ends! The not knowing whether we belong with the mages, or the muggle world. Those dastardly comments about being just pure enough to be tolerable in good company --- you muggleborns at least know where you stand. You don’t have to think – oh what part of my family’s history will they make fun of now? No, because you haven’t got family history that they know. You’re clean slates. When everyone figured out I was a halfblood they constantly kept bringing up the fact that my mother raped my muggle father – oh and that’s apparently not a bad thing? Because she put him in his rightful muggle place – literally beneath her in this sense I imagine...’’

Palpable silence.

Until one halfblood, the little eleven year old girl Griselda Murphy, yelled out: ’’Let’s go to their pureblood homes and KILL them!’’

So they do.

Bellatrix they miss because she’s going off to a bunker her aunt Walburga has prepared for this exact moment when the lessers would rise up against their rightful betters.

But Abraxas Malfoy is watching them from inside Malfoy Manor and telling them not to step on any of his roses. ’’If you do I will be very cross.’’

Lord Voldemort steps on one of the red roses then, dramatically.

’’What’s this about, my lord!?’’

’’We are here as your DEATH!’’

’’You’re fucking afraid of death, don’t make me come out there!’’ Abraxas brandishes his wand and says that he’s ready to fight.

A horde of halfbloods rallies behind Voldemort.

’’We will not be intimidated or controlled by your backward ways!’’

’’What?’’ Abraxas is trying to understand.

’’DOWN WITH PUREBLOODS!’’ Voldemort shouts and everyone shouts with him.

’’YOU SECURED MOST OF YOUR POWER WITH PUREBLOODS!’’ Abraxas tells it like it is.

’’DID I STUTTER?’’ Voldemort demands.

Abraxas guffaws at him: ’’DID MY _WALLET_?’’

Then Abraxas shoots him in the chest and Voldemort wakes up in bed at Malfoy Manor.

’’It was a _dream_.’’ He rasps out, pulling the blanket closer to be up to his throat. Next to him, he notes Abraxas Malfoy’s stirring form. He tugs the blankets towards himself and mumbles something. When Voldemort doesn’t answer him, Abraxas turns around and blearily asks him what’s wrong because he can sense his magic is erratic.

’’I had a bad dream.’’ Voldemort confides. This is what one does to a confidant, after all.

’’Was it the Mrs. Cole dream?’’

’’No.’’ Voldemort doesn’t think he would have woken up this easily if it were the Mrs. Cole dream. Nightmare beyond his wildest nightmares.

A sigh. ’’Was it that halfblood dream you always get when you eat chocolates before bed?’’

’’I do not get it when I eat chocolates before sleep. It just.... comes periodically.’’

’’Don’t lie, you’re only embarrassing yourself.’’ Abraxas yawns and tries to squint open his eyes to look at Voldemort in the dark. He grabs hold of his hands under the covers and asks him: ’’Why are you upset?’’

’’It isn’t a sign.’’ Lord Voldemort reassures Abraxas (or himself?). Abraxas forces his eyes open just a tiny bit more to see that Lord Voldemort is confused as well as any muggleborn travelling in the Ministry’s lift for the first time.

’’Oh trust me, mon chou, _I know_.’’ Abraxas shifts to take the blankets and turn away to go back to sleep. The sun isn’t even out. He doesn’t want to check to see what time it is and know how little or much he has left to sleep.

Voldemort, however, squints suspiciously at Abraxas and asks: ’’...what do you mean 'you know'?’’

A pause moves between them. One that’s too long.

Voldemort will not be ignored: ’’Abraxas we are not finished with this conversation!’’

Abraxas, beginning be more awake, stirs and speaks, turning to look at Voldemort in the eye: ’’I simply mean that you, despite everything, have a loyalty to purebloods you can't shake.’’ A smile. ’’No matter how much you may want to.’’

Miffed, Voldemort rebukes this: ’’I am loyal to _myself, _Abraxas. You are only a means to an end.’’

Abraxas hums noncommittally and forces himself to straighten and sit up in bed. ’’Don’t you find it strange, then, that you aren’t loyal to other halfbloods. They are not loyal to purebloods. They have nothing to gain unless they game the system, and -- at the risk of inflating your ego -- you've outlined to us already how that could happen in explicit detail.’’

’’So why didn't you stop me?’’ Voldemort wonders, for the first time silent and keen to hear what Abraxas has to say.

Abraxas leans forward to capture Voldemort’s lips in a kiss. After doing so he gives him a soft smile and admits: ’’My lord, I never said _you_ weren't a means to an end.’’

Seeing no point in remaining in bed now that they’ve both been awoken, Abraxas gets up and goes to take a shower while Voldemort reflects on matters. He wears a baffled smile and it tugs harder up, to truly capture the unexpected words of his confidant.

’’_We_’ve won!’’ Voldemort yells.

Abraxas, leans out from the bathroom and cheerfully yells: ’’We have indeed, my lord!’’

* * *

At Hogwarts,

Things are becoming hectic.

Because _quidditch_.

Lord Voldemort fails to understand this mania, but it seems that wherever he looks House spirit rages to extremes. He even finds Tina Shacklebolt rallying behind the Hufflepuffs, even though months prior she’s thought that this would never be her home. Even for a little while. Hogwarts has a way of making everyone feel welcome and found.

Minerva McGonagall will be Headmsitresses until the end of the school year and will then go into politics as Abraxas’ secretary. They make a fitting match. His confidant and the Headmistress with ideas. The Last Phoenix – no, it is incredibly rude to call a predator by its prey. Minerva is a cat and this she shall remain forever.

She forces herself to confront him more and more often. By the looks of her one of these times is now.

’’I understand you and Abraxas care for each other very much.’’ She doesn’t dilly dally and for this Voldemort finds himself beyond amused. Another in her position would have made an introduction. ’’But I would like to know, clearly, what you are to each other.’’

’’He loves you.’’ Lord Voldemort doesn’t lie. It’s rather not collegial to lie. ’’He’s loved you since 1951. Perhaps even before that.’’

Assured, Minerva asks Voldemort if he’s found the cloak.

’’He really tells you things.’’ Voldemort stares. ’’Antoinette never knew anything.’’

Minerva doesn’t like to be compared, but she doesn’t say anything. Voldemort can take a hint, the ooze of the ice rolling off of Minerva’s magic, that he ought to keep shut on these matters. So he does.

’’I’ll just put my idea out there for public scrutiny.’’

’’All right, go ahead, Headmistress.’’

’’Do you remember my cloak?’’

’’I do, very sturdy and fine invisibility cloak. But I am not looking for just ANY cloak, you see.’’

’’Abraxas told me that you found the Elder Wand on Dumbledore.’’ Minerva stresses the man and Voldemort’s face twitches, ever so slightly.

’’What is your point?’’

’’The cloak was willed to me by Dumbledore.’’ She has the sense not to say Albus in Voldemort’s presence.

Lord Voldemort asks to see this cloak.

They go outside, near the Forbidden Forest to burn it and make sure nobody is in sight to get hurt.

Moments later as he’s burning the cloak in fiendfyre he can feel a strange presence nearby. One whose touch is skeletal and cold as **_ice_**.

Voldemort slowly turns around to find that a skeleton’s fingers are gripping his shoulder tightly. He sputters in an undignified manner, but it’s all right because he assumes everyone is undignified when they’re about to face – he looks up and sees a skull – DEATH.

’’Hello.’' The voice is grand and calm and beautiful and terrifying and too soon and Voldemort lunges backwards, even falls on his arse and takes out his yew wand and screams in perpetual fear.

Minerva finds all of this amusing, though a tad worrying. ’’Who are you trying to attack?’’

Death snaps her skeletal fingers and Minerva jumps so fast that she even transforms into a cat halfway into that jump. Next, Death spells Minerva immobile, as a witness to watch.

Death cants her skull to the side, even does a small 180 degree turn with it. Her teeth chatter loudly. She moves closer to Voldemort. Even bends down to be on eye level with him. She takes his shaking hands in hers and whispers, soothingly: ’’I am not here to take you.’’

The shaking does not subside, but the tears lessen, and he finds his voice: ’’I did as Alexio told me to.’’

’’Good boy.’’ Death praises and moves her hands to ruffle his hair like a very small and unimportant dog she’s found on the street whilst on a walk. ’’You’re very good at following instructions.’’

Lord Voldemort exhales and shrugs and tries to look anywhere else but the one thing he has feared more than anything in the whole world. He digs his nails into his palms and tries to regain composure. But how can he do that when Death is holding him, when Death (DEATH) is gently cupping his chin and turning it so she forces him to look.

’’You have made me into an enemy when you decided to fight me. Immortality is disrespectful. Alexio has atoned for it by being my tool and my spokesman. Funny thing about that – he’s become irrelevant to me. Now that the Hallows are destroyed I can move freely and do things without fear of being bound or controlled or commanded.’’ She presses one finger on his forehead and pushes. _Hard_. ’’I watched you squirm.’’ Her fingers are ice incarnate. They are death and cool and Voldemort closes his eyes and tries to desperately inch away. Bile travels up his throat. His stomach churns. He doesn’t even see the horcuxes or hear them or feel them – this is it, Voldemort’s mind thinks, this is my last day.

But Death does not take him. ’’I sent you this ice. You could feel it and see it and hear it – but my ice is personal. Not only did you disrespect me by making a horcrux you continued to do so by making more. I waited until you’d won your war so I knew that your death would be ... frustrating. Your suicide was going to be the epitome of irony. I was going to welcome you and drain your soul right before your eyes, flinging you into agony you cannot comprehend – all to repeat anew. I have waited since 1942 to get my hands on you.’’ Her hands are cold. Her hands are so, so cold. Voldemort moves away, but she holds him in place firmly.

’’I planned to do so many things. But the one I wanted more than any of them was for you to take your life and face me on your own. That... oh... that would have sustained me for eons to come, I know.’’ Angrily, the world spins and the trees rot and grass beneath him wilts and and and and and ’’You thought that you were beyond my judgement, Tom Marvolo Riddle.’’

Lord Voldemort tries to shake his head but he finds that he cannot form words. Fear strangles him. He cannot breathe. Her skeletal fingers move down from his chin and grasp his throat in a gentle embrace.

’’But then you broke the Elder Wand.’’ Death retracts her hand from Voldemort’s throat and stands up. Jagged and large wings made of bone and stars shift from her back and flutter open. ’’And I saw potential within you. Of course, the Hallows bound me – I bound myself thanklessly – so I sent Alexio to explain you the finer details of the boon I was going to offer you. I stand before you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, I am Lord Voldemort, as free. I reward those faithful to my cause.’’ She gestures for him to rise and when he finds himself incapable of following instructions she laughs and forces him up with a swirl of magic.

Her open palm presses against his chest, where his heart is – and Death says: ’’You may live for however long you wish.’’

And then what follows, Voldemort swears, is the most painful thing he has ever experienced.


	25. Chapter 25

There is a beautiful moment in every person’s life when they see someone they love and know without a shadow of a doubt that this person is all right. When they remember the less than stellar past and all of the pain and hurt they’ve gone through, there is no kinder, happier sight than to see this person calmly living on. Not without hurt or sadness, because without these things life cannot exist, but still a life with joy and fulfilment and a sense of peace that can’t be bought.

Abraxas watches Voldemort over dinner at Malfoy Manor- his face aglow with bliss. He’s lost in a conversation and doesn’t notice Abraxas lovingly gazing. His interlocutor is telling him about Ministry incompetence that draws a laugh out of him, one that he doesn’t cut off, giving her his full attention. She has grown so much when compared to the young girl Abraxas remembers interning under him in 1983, at Voldemort’s recommendation. Grading essays doesn’t suit one Tina Shacklebolt.

A little further down the table Rita Skeeter and Bellatrix Black talk in hushed tones. Bellatrix grabs the other’s hand and kisses it. Rita melts at the touch, leaning into it for more. Rita has ousted her father and become their key journalist.

It’s been decades since they’ve won and Abraxas can’t help but jinx them all with a thought: Everyone is all right. And beyond all else, this is such a good, grateful thought to have. 

Lord Voldemort takes a glass of red wine and after taking a sip says how proud he is of everyone’s contribution during their newest election. They’ve all retired here after the Ministry’s celebrations. He asks anyone if they’ve seen their guest of honour. Bella says that perhaps she’s been held up at the Ministry. Nods from all around at this, it does seem like the best possible answer.

Abraxas turns next to Minerva and searches her beautiful eyes for clues, perhaps she knows something more. She shrugs and there is a charming hint of a blush on her cheeks. He hopes it’s he that garners such a reaction from his wife, and not the wine.

Death Eaters present sit farther down and this dinner is only made for those of the highest esteem. Zephyr Avery and Thoros Nott talk about their children and grandchildren eagerly, with Lucius adding bits of what Draco has told him about. Narcissa and Andromeda sit next to one another and talk about art and politics

Opposite of the head of the table where Voldemort sits is an empty chair. Bellatrix leans a tad towards Voldemort and asks him if she may be permitted to search for their guest of honour – but the doors open and Hermione Granger slips in, already apologetic and quick to offer an explanation about Ministry officials and the importance of being seen doing these ceremonies until the end.

Before she goes into full detail, Abraxas points to where she is to sit. Somewhat slowly and carefully the Brightest Witch of Her Age takes the seat opposite of Voldemort. He stands, then, with his glass of red wine raised to her and says: ’’We have all come here tonight to celebrate a new era of our world. One that is only going to get better with age – I suppose like this wine right now,’’ Tina laughs. Voldemort goes back on topic and smiles, ’’To Hermione Granger, our Minister for Magic.’’ Cheers and applause fills the dining room.

Hermione inclines her head in a thank you, but as she is stubborn to her core she stands up with her glass and says: ’’To Professor Voldemort, a man without whose help and guidance I would have probably gone into protection of Elf rights.’’ Chuckles all around. ‘’No, I’m serious, one of the reasons why he got me to agree to run was because I could make S.P.E.W. legally obligatory.’’ Less chuckles. Abraxas begins to clap and people follow due to duty. Again, Hermione says: ‘’To Professor Voldemort!’’ It echoes, that dear cheer.

Lord Voldemort finally looks at Abraxas and his brown eyes crinkle with happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of those that followed along and commented, I'm truly happy to share this story with you all . 
> 
> Special shout out to MM, my dear friend <3

**Author's Note:**

> https://discord.gg/44z9xWvD - i've a discord, feel free to join if you ever wanna chat and meme together


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